Worthy
by TreeSn
Summary: A Perfect Hunter... The Perfect Prey Set Season 2 between Bloodlust and Children Shouldnt Play With Dead Things, the brothers are both dealing the John's death. Can they push aside the guilt and grief long enough to stay alive...
1. Married to my guilt

**Worthy**

Chapter 1: Married to my guilt…

Dean pressed his hand firmly against his abdomen when for the third time in the past hour his stomach grumbled loud enough to be heard over the strains of Slaughter's _Up All Night_. The irony of the song wasn't lost on the elder Winchester; he _had_ been up all night, eyes focused on the double yellow lines of the highway as he steered the Impala across the Minnesota landscape.

It was nearly sunrise, the horizon already displaying vibrant shades of red, yellow and blue as the sun prepared to make an appearance. Dean hated this time of the day, this and twilight. He could drive for twenty-four hours straight, but there was just something about still being behind the wheel when the sun came up that seemed to instantly make him crave sleep.

So really, maybe it was a good thing that his stomach was growling so much. Its emptiness was at least keeping him awake.

It grumbled again, this time loud enough that it stirred Sam from the fitful sleep he had managed the past couple of hours. The younger man looked about the cramped interior of the Chevy, fighting for clarity in those first moments after waking.

"What the hell was that noise?" Sam asked, stretching as much as he could in the space between the dash and the seat. "Did you pick up a hitchhiking chupacabra along the way?"

Dean glanced away from the road and threw his brother a less than humor-filled smirk. "Funny, smartass. Sorry that I interrupted your beauty sleep, but you know, it's kinda hard to keep quiet when you're starving to death."

Sam chuckled. "Starving? Dude, you ate enough at that truck stop to keep a freakin' gorilla happy for a week."

"The truck stop? Sam, that was nearly seven hours ago," Dean cried, pointing at his watch. "My stomach has strict rules about feeding."

"Strict rules? Oh, I see, that should be a short list. Rule number one, eat often, rule number two, eat anything that doesn't get away fast enough, and rule number three, repeat rules one and two," Sam teased as he ticked off his made-up inventory against his fingers.

"Seriously, Sammy, I gotta eat! I have this metabolism thing," Dean whined as sincerely as he could manage.

He watched as his brother shook his head, and even in the dim light of the Impala, Dean knew Sam was rolling his eyes.

"Where are we anyway?" Sam asked after a second.

"About ten miles from Brigette's Place."

"Who the hell is Brigette? Dude, we're supposed to be heading for a case, not taking time out for you to hook up," Sam complained.

"I'll have you know that Brigette's Place is an all-night diner up ahead in Garvin that boasts the biggest breakfast buffet in the state," Dean clarified.

Sam seemed unimpressed. "Wow, can you manage any more 'B' words in a sentence, Dean?" he snarked.

"Bite my backside, brother," Dean quickly returned.

Sam exaggerated his disdain with a loud snort that only made Dean laugh silently with satisfaction. He paused before continuing to speak, his jaw working back and forth as his mind chewed through what his next words should be.

"Seriously, Sam. We should successfully stop in Red Lake by sunset even with a slight skirting of the scheduled route for some sustenance," Dean offered.

"Dean!" Sam's voice warned. "S's now? Do you think I'm impressed? That sentence barely makes sense."

"Maybe it's because my brain cells are starving."

"Oh, they're starved alright," Sam replied.

"Funny!"

Sam chuckled again and an all-too-familiar quiet settled in the car, each man once more staring out into the darkness and lost in his own thoughts.

It had been a tense few months since the death of their dad with neither of them being able to come to grips with his loss. Sam tried, Dean had to give him credit, but even the younger man's junkyard confession had not stopped the on-going attempt to "fix things" by taking on one job after another. The initial grief had passed, and now the guilt had set in.

From Dean's perspective, his brother was dealing with his own whopping case of regret; something the eldest remaining Winchester was all too acquainted with. But there the similarity ended. While Sam was trying hard to make up for years of battling with Dad, Dean was merely trying to make it through the day without thinking about what his father had done for him… or what he'd told him that final day.

The problem was, a constant reminder was seated right next to him, ate across the table from him and slept in the bed beside his, every single day. Dean could barely look at Sam and not hear his father's voice echoing in his head.

_Watch out for Sammy… _

_or kill him…_

Nah, not like Dean wasn't dealing with his dad's death. Some days, he wished the man were still alive just so he could punch him in the face for dumping such a load on him. But that wasn't Dean's way. He'd been given an order, entrusted with a secret, and charged with a duty. He wouldn't fail, wouldn't risk wasting his father's sacrifice. He wouldn't – couldn't- lose the last remaining person that meant anything in his life. He just… couldn't.

"Well, you got awfully serious all of a sudden. What? Did all that thinking fry what few working neurons you have up there?" Sam teased.

Dean blinked several times and smiled weakly, not offering any sort of reply to the jibe. He cleared his throat which had suddenly gone dry, and glanced quickly at Sam before turning back to the road.

"So, you got a plan for when we reach Red Lake?" he asked nonchalantly.

Sam started to speak and then paused, a half-formed word softly escaping his lips but not escaping his brother's keen ear.

"What?" Dean demanded, already on edge.

Sam had been hinting at another "conversation" for the past couple of weeks, starting to talk only to stop midsentence or change the topic. Dean had thought the whole deal was past now, that they both had said their peace, beginning in the back of Bobby's salvage yard and culminating in the parking lot of the Adobe Court Motel, punctuated by Dean's fist.

But his baby brother was a talker, a fixer, and no matter how much Dean avoided, growled or simply refused, he knew sooner or later he was gonna cave. Sam always had a way of worming past the defenses of Dean's vault-like emotional walls. It had begun when his brother was small, starting with tears and pleading and ending with soulful eyes and an irritating penchant for persistence.

"I was only going to say…" Sam began slowly.

"WHAT?" Dean interrupted again.

"Nothing…"

"Well it was something. You started to say something, so why don't you finish it, Sam?"

"Are you trying to pick another fight with me, Dean? I told you before, you can punch me all you want if it makes you feel any better, but it's not going to fix anything and in the end, it isn't going to help you either," Sam snapped back.

"Fuck off, Sammy. I'm not getting into this again. I apologized for what happened back in Montana, what more do you want from me?"

"To be honest with yourself. To quit burying all that pain so goddamn deep down inside of you. Quit being so friggin' stubborn and just talk to me."

"Aw puhleeese…" Dean groaned. "You _do_ want to go through this all over again…"

"Again? I don't recall going through it the first time," Sam reminded him.

"First time? Gee, let's see, there was the day after I was discharged from the hospital and then the relentless weeks at Bobby's , and how about our pleasant little walk outside of Medford, and oh, lets don't forget all the accusations back at Red Lodge…"

"Yeah, and in all that time, Dean, have you ever said one honest thing about Dad's death? You run around trying to act tough, like you're some sort of hunter badass, and maybe that works on people that don't know you, but it isn't fooling me. When will you get that? Just like tonight, we could have stopped somewhere. There was no rush to get to Red Lake, nothing that couldn't wait until tomorrow. But, _no_, not you, the invincible, Save-The-World Dean Winchester! You have to drive all night just to prove something!" Sam shouted.

"Prove something? This hunt was your idea, Sam. Remember… 'it's what Dad would want us to do?' Any of that ringing a bell, little brother?" Dean threw back angrily.

"That is _not_ what I said."

"Oh? You could have fooled me. I distinctly recall wanting to head south where it was a bit warmer, not exactly take a road trip through the backwoods of Minnesota in late fall."

"We agreed that this needed checking into, Dean. Five men, all gone missing over the last two years only to turn up dead and with their livers torn out of them."

"Black market organ ring. You hear about that all the time," Dean grumbled back.

"In northern Minnesota? Yeah, right. Besides, that whole 'wake up in a bathtub full of ice with a kidney missing' is nothing but urban legend," Sam insisted.

"It happens, Sammy," Dean insisted.

"Yeah, maybe. But according to the reports, their organs weren't surgically removed, it was more like they were ripped out. I mean, no way was someone harvesting these folks and leaving a mess like that," Sam answered with a shrug as he grabbed the wad of papers he'd been scanning earlier in the evening

"Then what do you think is happening there?" Dean queried, semi-relieved that the conversation was turning away from any further talk about Dad.

"I dunno for sure. Could be some sort of spirit or…" the younger hunter paused.

"Or?"

"Maybe our friends, the Benders, had some cousins out around these parts," Sam suggested.

Dean groaned and shook his head, chasing away the fast onslaught of memories. He wasn't sure if his brother was being serious or not, but he sure hoped like hell that Sam was joking. The idea that there could be more of the demented family still out there on the loose made his flesh crawl and he shivered.

"Maybe Lee and Jared got away? Or maybe you're worried about their little sister coming after your ass," Sam teased.

Dean flashed an angry glare and followed it up with a raised middle finger. "So, assuming it's not some med school dropout looking to make money on the side or a bad remake of_ Deliverance_, then what?"

"I dunno really. I've cross-referenced everything I could but so far, nothing's turning up." Sam sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

Dean watched the movement absently. Sam had changed so much since Dean had dragged him from the quiet halls of Stanford academia. Granted, he was back in the game, but little things like his hair and his clothes all signaled a shift from promising lawyer to supernatural hunter. When once Sam's laptop likely held research for class, the browser now brought up nothing but websites pertaining to lore, legend and the occult. Hands that had grown accustomed to holding books and pens where now once again developing thick calluses from digging graves and handling weapons.

And then there were the visions. Dean wasn't sure what to make of them. He'd hoped that the first one was going to be the last, and that it had been some sort of strange premonition linked only because of the ties to their former home. But the visions hadn't stopped. If anything, they'd gotten worse and more frequent, and those were just the ones Dean knew about. He was suspicious that Sam had been keeping them on the down-low ever since what had happened with Max Miller.

Yeah, his brother had changed. But then, Dean admitted silently, so had he...

_Save him… or kill him…_

The words screamed in his head nearly every waking minute, condemning him, suffocating him, stealing away precious beats of his heart. He couldn't escape it, not with any amount of sleep or alcohol, not with abusing his body until he collapsed with exhaustion, and not even taking out all his pent-up anger on every supernatural SOB he could get his hands on.

"Dean? Dean!"

The elder Winchester's head snapped up, suddenly aware that he had drifted off in thought.

"Yeah?" he mumbled, swallowing hard and forcing the pesky voices to the back of his mind.

"I was saying, there's Brigitte's Place," Sam announced, pointing off to the side of the highway. "You were starving, remember?"

Dean nodded silently and offered his brother a weak smile, knowing Sam was still watching him warily. He slowed the Impala, his eyes spotting the non-descript turn-off to the diner. The place was well lit; a couple of cars and a large delivery truck waited quietly in the parking lot.

He scanned the surroundings, always cautious, always on the lookout for anything out of the ordinary, always in protector mode. Especially now… although who and from what he was doing the protecting was becoming less and less clear.

He pulled the Impala into a parking space within easy reach of the diner's entrance, and with an unobstructed path back to the main road. _Just in case…_ Killing the engine, he turned, surprised to find that Sam had sprung quickly from the car and was already heading toward the restaurant. Dean sucked in a sharp breath as he watched his brother walk away, felt it catch slightly in his chest like it always did when he looked at Sam these days.

He paused, taking in the burgeoning red sky that signaled the approaching daybreak; another day, another opportunity to make something of it. But deep down, Dean knew there was no optimism left inside him. Without the Colt, they stood little chance against the Yellow Eyed Demon and without Dad, the chance of ever getting his family back together was gone. All that was left was Sam.

_Save him… or kill him._

Now wasn't that just a damn fine cross to bear?

dwWsw

Dean dropped into the seat, scooting across the sticky vinyl until his back rested against the corner where the booth met the wall. He hated having his back to the door, preferring to choose a place where he could watch every entrance and assess any potential threat to Sam.

Sammy… just looking at his brother stole away any appetite he had. Not even the inviting aroma from the nearby buffet seemed able to combat the sudden ache deep in the pit of his stomach or the echoes of his father's voice in his head.

"Coffee, gentlemen?"

Dean looked up at the middle-aged waitress standing at the end of the table, a steaming pot held in her hand. He nodded, pushing the cup towards her, and watched as she filled first his and then Sam's.

"Will you be wanting the buffet or do you want to take a look at the menu. The buffet is all you can eat for $5.99 and includes your beverage," she announced.

Sam laughed. "My brother can eat an awful lot ma'am. You might want to warn the cook."

She smiled in return and then turned back to Dean, looking him up and down as though she were sizing the "threat." She ended up shrugging nonchalantly before tapping on her order pad impatiently, waiting for the brothers' responses.

"Are there pancakes on the buffet," Sam asked.

"Yep, regular and blueberry."

"Then that's what I'll have."

The waitress nodded again and turned back once more to Dean, raising her eyebrows as she waited for his order.

"Yeah, me too," he answered without excitement.

She pointed out the long buffet bar, telling them to help themselves before she walked back behind the counter. Sam eagerly jumped up and headed toward the food, piling far more on his plate than Dean did. They returned to the booth and Dean watched with amazement as his brother poured syrup all over the hotcakes and began to devour them.

Dean observed his brother for a moment longer, toying dispassionately with his own food before dropping his fork and turning his attention back to the cup of coffee between his hands. He closed his eyes, relishing the warmth that soaked into his flesh. He always seemed to feel cold lately, and dimly he wondered if it had more to do with his near brush _yet again_ with the reaper, than with the outside temperature.

"What's up with you?" Sam asked between bites, peeking up from underneath his shaggy mop of hair.

"What do you mean?" Dean answered defensively.

"You spent the last hour whining about how you're starving to death and now you act like someone put tofu on your plate. What's wrong?" Sam demanded. "And don't bother telling me its nothing."

"I am not doing this, Sam," Dean warned. "Now do you want to talk about this hunt or would you rather keep dredging up a bunch of emo shit that won't solve anything?"

He forced a determined glare on his face while he waited for Sam's response, stubbornly unblinking as his brother first returned the fierce stare and then finally conceded with a frustrated huff of air.

"Saammmm…" Dean continued, not sparing the pleading whine in his voice. "The case? Please? Come on dude… how 'bout we put all this energy into beating the crap out of some evil asshat instead of each other for change?"

The taller man huffed again, unable to bar the grin from appearing on his face as he pulled a sheaf of papers from the backpack on the seat beside him. Pushing aside the dishes, Sam sorted out the notes as he thumbed through them.

"Well, as I said before, over the past two years there have been five men, all found dead up around the Red Lake area, and all with their livers torn out."

"Any connection between the victims?" Dean asked, stabbing at a piece of sausage.

"Um… not that's immediately apparent. One worked for the DNR and another was a construction worker out of Rochester. Got this one who worked as a deckhand on some freighter that ran Lake Superior and dude, number four was a county cop by the name of Gene McNally," Sam informed him, shuffling through several obit reports.

Dean shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth, deciding that if Sam could focus on the hunt, then the least he could do was pretend that everything else was normal. "A cop, huh?" he mumbled. "What about the last one?"

"Three weeks ago, Charles Patterson was released from the Minnesota Correctional Facility in St. Cloud."

"What was he in for?" Dean asked, pushing his plate away, satisfied that he'd made a decent effort.

"Six to ten for assault. It says he put two men in ICU following a brawl outside a bar in Albertville. Patterson was stabbed twice and still managed to break one of the men's arm in two places and beat the other so bad the guy needed reconstructive surgery on his face," Sam read aloud.

"So he was one badass S.O.B. Apparently, he wasn't tough enough to keep something from carving out his liver and having it with some fava beans and a nice chianti," Dean commented before making a sucking noise through his teeth to mimic Anthony Hopkins.

"Nice, Dean," Sam groaned. "It says that Patterson's body was found a week ago on the side of County Road Fifty-two."

"How 'bout the rest of them? Where were they discovered?"

"All over the county. Hunters found the deckhand out in the woods beyond some town called Plummer. Cops found their buddy up near Thief River, which is nearly seventy-five miles from where he lived and worked. And the DNR guy turned up half decomposed on the shore of the lake," Sam recounted. "There's just nothing that seems to connect these men. They were all from different towns, all from different walks of life, and there's no reason to think they ever knew each other."

"So, random kills? Not like the Benders ever went grocery shopping at the same store. It would've raised too much suspicion."

"You still think this is some whacked-out human?"

Dean shrugged and took another sip of his coffee. "I dunno, you have any better suggestion? I mean, we're not talking any of our usual suspects."

"Well, the bodies were all found within twenty miles of Red Lake. So whatever it is, I'm guessing it centers there," Sam suggested. "But I agree, this isn't any sort of shapeshifter and it's certainly not a wendigo."

"Nope," the elder hunter agreed. "A wendigo would have finished off the entire meal, wouldn't have just taken the liver. I can't think of a single thing that's so selective with its kill."

"Which puts us back to square one. I dunno, Dean, maybe you're right and this is nothing more than some werid-ass serial killer taking trophies."

Dean scratched at the nape of his neck and chuckled loudly.

"What?" Sam asked, his brows pinched with confusion at his brother's sudden change of mood. "What the hell is so funny?"

"A serial killer in nowhere Minnesota? There was a time when I would have said that no way with our luck is it _ever_ just a serial killer in Minnesota. And why can't we catch a gig somewhere like Hollywood? How come mangled corpses never turn up there?" he mused.

"They do," Sam offered with his own chuckle. "Dude, have you seen a picture of Joan Rivers lately?

Dean wrinkled his nose with distaste and feigned a shudder before they both broke into twin rounds of laughter. For a moment, it was the same easy-going humor that they'd enjoyed before…

Before what? Dean thought. Before Sam left for Stanford? Before the crash? Before their dad's death? Before John's haunting last command?

The laughter died as abruptly as it began, forcing Dean to stand in order to avoid the awkward silence. Digging several bills out of his wallet, he tossed them on the table before draining the last dregs of coffee from the cup. The dark beverage wasn't hot and strong anymore, but then, Dean admitted, neither was he.

dwWsw

Biyen Aysebun rose stiffly from the ground, careful not to disturb the carefully placed mound of rocks he'd created. The early morning sun was just about to eclipse the thick blanket of rising mist from the lake, the amber rays peeking between the rows of Red Pines and Tamarack Larches.

The old man stretched, his weathered hands rubbing at the kinks that his overnight vigil caused to settle into aged joints and muscles. He knew there'd come a day when his body would betray his ability to carry out his duty, but for now, Biyen couldn't worry about that. Someday, this responsibility would fall to another. Someday, it would_ have_ to.

For the good of the people, he reminded himself. What he did was for the good of the people. His family, friends and all of those who were subjected to the curse of their ancestors; he did it for them.

Wiping the thin sheen of perspiration from his brow and ignoring the pounding of his heart in his chest, Biyen moved to collect the ceremonial dagger from his satchel. The sun was creeping higher and he knew that he needed to complete the ritual before it crested the eastern shore.

Removing the long hunting blade from the bag, the old man gently unwrapped the ornately decorated deerskin that covered the knife. Reverently, he withdrew the weapon and walked slowly back toward the mound of stones.

Kneeling down, Biyen closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, forcing his mind to clear of any other thought and pushing aside the heaviness in his chest that throbbed with each beat of his heart. He had to finish this…

Sure, maybe the others were content to abandoned the "old ways", content to eke out some meager living while working at the casino, unmindful of the loss of their culture, the continued watering-down of their history or their traditions.

No, he had to finish this. If his people were going to survive into the next millennia, then someone had to carry on with the ceremonies such as this one.

Drawing the knife across his inner forearm, Biyen laid open his flesh as he had many times before. Both of his extremities were lined with silvering scars, each representing some other time that he'd performed the ritual. There wasn't even pain anymore, just the slight rush of adrenaline as the warm serum poured down his arm and dripped from his fingertips.

The blood quickly covered the smooth stones, coating them with a red paint that rapidly dried and turned brown. Even before he began the chant, a far-off shriek pierced the early morning quiet, stirring birds from their treetops and silencing the insect denizen of their soft twitters and chirps.

Biyen continued unfazed. He had to finish. If the ritual was left half-done, there was no commanding the beast. Uncontrolled, it would attack without provocation, without heed to who it took so long as they were worthy. Unfettered by the rite, it would prey on his people as it had so long ago.

No, he had to complete his task. Even as the pain in his chest increased, the vice-like grip causing his own hands to go numb, he managed to hold on to the blade as he finished the strange mantra. He collapsed as the last syllable rolled off his lips, dropping backwards to the cool earth exhausted but relieved, his breathing slowing as the crushing pain in his chest lessened.

Another shrill cry rose above the forest and the old man groaned, pushing himself up to an elbow. He wasn't really done yet. Sure, the ritual was complete, but he still had to find a suitable sacrifice to ensure that his people would be safe for another season.

Struggling up from the ground, Biyen cleaned away the evidence of his work, but left the bloody pile of stones untouched. Carefully, he cleaned and rewrapped the ceremonial knife and replaced it in his pack. Hoisting the bag up onto his shoulder, he began the long trek back to the reservation.

Catching a glimpse of the lake, he smiled. The sun was fully up now, brilliant hues of orange, yellow and red glinting beautifully off the fast changing foliage. Fall was in full bloom and winter's cold white chill wasn't far behind.

_One more time…_ Biyen thought to himself as he continued through the forest, his breath visible in the still-chilly air.

He didn't hear the soft creaking of the branches above his head as the creature's weight settled on them. He didn't notice the gently falling leaves that were torn from the forest canopy by its arrival. And he didn't know that malevolent red eyes watched his every step, tracking him as he moved through the forest; watching… waiting…

Hungry!


	2. Shattered By My Pride

_Thanks to my incredible beta – Mizpah… for all your patience and encouragement. Send me the bill for all the counseling- I owe you huge! And Steph- keep those pompoms handy chica!_

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, not now, not ever… but one can dream!

**Worthy**

_**Chapter 2 Shattered by my pride…**_

"No matter how many times I've been through Minnesota, I'm always amazed at how much water there is everywhere," Sam mused as he stared at the passing scenery. "Everywhere you look… it's one lake or pond after another."

"Ten thousand lakes, dude. There's a reason why they stamp that on all the license plates," Dean snarked in reply. "And to think you made it to Stanford with that brain."

Sam cast him an irritated smirk but didn't offer his own comeback.

"Really, Sam. Don't you remember Pastor Jim taking us fishing at all those places around Blue Earth? He was always going on and on about what pond was good for what kind of fish. Hell, I never could tell a walleye from a guppy," Dean reminisced.

"What was the name of that one spot? Lake Larson or something? Remember the time you tipped the boat and Pastor Jim got tossed into the water. I think that's the closest I ever saw the man come to swearing," Sam added.

"Dude, it was Lars Lake. How could you forget that? And it wasn't me that got him wet. If you hadn't gotten a hook stuck in your finger and were screaming like a little girl, I wouldn't have had to jump up and try to keep you from going into the drink. It was all your yelling and hopping around that made the boat rock back and forth."

"I was _not_ screaming. Besides, I was only six and it hurt like hell."

"You never could handle the pain, dude. I doubt there was a fish left within a mile of us after all the racket you raised," Dean teased, breaking into easy laughter.

"Yeah, well, it got us out of going fishing ever again. I think Pastor Jim officially gave up on us that day," Sam agreed with amusement.

Dean shook his head sadly. "That poor guy. He tried so hard didn't he?"

Sam sighed and nodded. "Yeah, he did. Between fishing, cooking and God, do you remember all the times we played board games with him? I think he tried to give us some sense of normality."

"Too bad it was a lost cause."

"You think so? I mean, I always figured he knew that Dad was pretty fixated on tracking down the thing that killed Mom and didn't spend any time with us. He just tried to fill in the gaps. Maybe he wanted to give us some sort of father figure," Sam suggested.

"We had a father figure, Sam! Dad spent time with us. How can you forget all the stuff he did with us when we were younger?" Dean burst out.

"Like what, Dean? 'Cause I don't consider hunting, target practice and field surgery quality time."

"That's all you want to think about, isn't it? You can't possibly remember him taking us to movies or what about that circus down in Texas?" Dean demanded.

"Texas? Are you kidding me? Of course I remember the circus in Texas, but not the same way you do. Dad was on a hunt, chasing down that revenant. It was preying on the animals in that pathetic little sideshow. Dad only took us because it was easier to keep an eye on us and still set traps for the friggin' zombie," Sam shouted back.

"Here we go again," Dean grumbled. "You know, Sam, it sure would be nice if you'd make up your mind about the man. One minute, he didn't do anything right by us and the next, you're obsessing with following what you think he wanted us to do."

"That's not fair, Dean. I'm not defending him, and I'm not trying to make him the bad guy. I know he was obsessed after mom, and I know he never meant for us to be tossed off to the side while he carried out his one-man crusade against every evil thing in the dark. But the truth is that he didn't treat us like normal sons and you know it!"

"And you'd prefer that he had? Sam, let me ask you something. What would you have felt like if that night back at Palo Alto you woke up to see Jessica burning on the ceiling, and you had _no_ idea what was happening or why? Would that have made you feel any better? Would you rather Dad kept us safe and never told us about what's _really _happening out there?" Dean challenged. "Would you prefer that he taught us how to catch a ground ball or how to put down a ghost? Which has come in handier over the years?"

Dean waited for Sam's answer, his fingers rubbing nervously against the hard rubber-encased metal of the steering wheel.

"Does knowing about all of that make it any better?" Sam finally replied. "I feel totally responsible for Jessica, because I _did_ know. I knew what was out there and I didn't do anything to stop it. She died because of me, Dean. How can _you_ possibly know what that's like?"

The older sibling felt the lump rise in his throat. He tried to swallow it down but it remained steadfastly in place; choking him, suffocating him, the massive overwhelming guilt and doubts that had plagued him for weeks resurfacing. His grip tightened on the wheel as he fought to keep his response civil. He knew his brother was consumed with his own grief and guilt over Jessica's death, but to assume that Dean knew nothing of that level of responsibility and pain was just selfish.

"Look, Sam. I don't want to fight about this. I know you lost a lot when Jess died. I heard what old Yellow-eyes said back at the cabin. You were going to marry her; you wanted a normal family life. And dude, I wish more than anything you could have had that, but the cold hard facts are that you, me and Dad, we have a responsibility to act on the knowledge we have. And if that meant Dad taught us to target shoot instead of taking us to the Playland at McDonalds, then I guess that's the price we paid. But don't sit there and try to make it sound like he never tried. You were too young to remember some of the months after Mom died. Dad didn't…" Dean's voice drifted off as his head dipped down.

"Didn't what, Dean? What didn't Dad do?" Sam prompted tentatively.

"Didn't sleep, Sam. Didn't eat, didn't sleep, he just watched over you, so afraid that he didn't have a clue how to take care of a little baby, so worried that what happened to Mom might happen to you," Dean rapidly divulged. "He was a wreck after Mom, but the one thing he focused on was you. Even later, it was all about you , Sam. And you might not remember it, but who the hell do you think managed to raise you? It sure as hell wasn't me at the start. I was only freakin' four years old and I wasn't dealing so well with what happened that night either."

"But later…"

"Later? Sam, what the hell did you want? Sure, Dad wasn't Ward Cleaver, but dude, he wasn't Homer Simpson either. He made sure you had food and clothes. We always had a place to stay. He might not have come home every day at five and played catch in the backyard, but you never wanted for anything important," Dean insisted.

"You just can't see it, can you?" Sam shot back.

"See what? See that you two butted heads from the minute you could put more than three words together in a sentence? That no matter what he did, it wasn't good enough for you?"

"He wasn't there for us, not when we really needed him. He was off on a hunt, buried in research or lost in a bottle," the younger man complained. "I just don't get how you, of all people, can cut him so much slack. Look at what he did to you?"

"Did to me?" Dean asked quizzically.

"You never had a life. All you had was watching out for me and learning how to be a hunter."

"Maybe that's what I wanted, Sammy."

"Was it? Was it really?" Sam challenged. "Did you really worship the man so much that you can't see he never gave you a chance at a decent childhood or a shot at anything other than this life?"

"What do you want from me, Sam? Do you want me to hate him? Do you want me to say that I regretted how he _expected_ me to watch out for my little brother?" Dean demanded. "Maybe I didn't want to always be respon…

Dean stopped abruptly but not fast enough. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Sam hadn't missed his slip.

"You didn't want to what?" Sam asked gently.

_Don't make me say it, Sam… please don't... _Dean silently pleaded.

He stared directly through the windshield, his stomach churning in knots.

"You didn't want to what, Dean?" Sam repeated.

"Nothing. Just forget it," he managed, swallowing hard.

"Dude, come on. Don't go silent on me now. Do you think I don't know how it was for you? I'm just as angry at Dad for how he treated you as I am for me."

"I'm not angry with him, Sam."

"You're not?"

"No…" _Yes! Hell yes, I'm angry with him. He dumped this on me and then just left. Take care of Sam! Watch out for Sammy. Save him… or kill him…_

"Then why can you barely talk about him? Look, I know you miss him and despite all of my bitching, I miss him too. But just because he's gone, doesn't mean that you have to act like he was perfect."

"He wasn't perfect, Sam. I know he wasn't perfect," Dean agreed. _Perfect dads don't tell you to kill your own brother, the kid you raised and spent your life protecting. _

"Then what is this all about? He's gone, let's just be honest about things for once. You don't have to protect him or justify what he was."

"I've been honest with you. What more do you want from me? You just don't want to hear the truth and admit that the man wasn't as bad as you made him out to be. You just want to blame him for everything that's gone wrong in your life," Dean accused his brother.

"And you just can't see _any _fault in him. You're so willing to let him dictate how you lived that you just can't think on your own. Is that the problem, Dean? Dad's not here to tell you what to do now?"

The words were hurtful and they found the soft underbelly of his psyche, plunging in like a dagger and gutting him. Sam was good. But Dean was better.

"You have no clue, Sam. You've never thought about anyone but yourself your entire life. You never had to. Maybe I _was_ just some dumb kid, blindly following the old man's orders. But I'll tell you this. I thank God that the tables weren't turned and you were the older brother. No telling how I would have ended up."

"Screw you, Dean!" Sam snarled and turned to face the passenger's side window.

Dean sighed and fixed his gaze straight ahead, watching absently as the Impala ate up the road and more of Minnesota's trademark lakes went by in a blue blur.

_Screw me?_ He repeated silently. _Oh Sammy, if you only knew how screwed we both were_.

Dad was gone, Sam was pissed, and he was harboring a secret that was eating away at him second by second.

Things were so messed up and Dean didn't have a clue how to fix them… or even if he could.

dwWsw

Nara Kendall pushed back the dangling strands of shoulder length, brown-black hair as she rose from the hard linoleum floor. She stretched her back and groaned loudly, looking over her accomplishment. It had taken half the morning, but she'd finally managed to dust and restock all the canned goods within the little store.

It wasn't like she had anything better to do; there'd only been two customers since she'd opened. Not that Nara minded. She rather enjoyed the peace and quiet; a far cry from her days of playing barista at a Starbucks in Minneapolis.

Sure, working in the tiny grocery wasn't glamorous, and Red Lake certainly wasn't anything like the hustle and bustle of the big city, but Nara felt safe, secure and wanted. Something she hadn't felt for most of her twenty-three years.

Her life was different now, better even, and if she occasionally missed getting lost in the depths of the university's library, then it was compensated by the ability to wander the beautiful forests and grasslands that surrounded this part of Minnesota.

Nara sighed contentedly and wiped her hands against her jean-clad thighs. Living on the reservation had its downside, but considering the last couple years of her life, it was a welcome improvement. While she didn't always agree with the isolationism that many of the others favored, Nara appreciated the struggle to protect the tribal customs and culture.

"Of course, how Bingo and gambling maintain our identity, I'll never understand," she mused aloud.

Shaking her head, she picked up the empty boxes and was about to take them to the trash when the bell on the front door jingled. Nara smiled as she turned, prepared to greet the customer. Her smile instantly disappeared when she saw her uncle stagger inside and lean heavily against the frame.

"_Nimishoo_!" she cried out, dropping the boxes and dashing to the older man's side. "Are you okay? Uncle Biyen… what happened?"

"_Nidooshimekwem_…" the man gasped, reaching a shaking hand toward the young woman. "I… I am fine, niece. Do not… worry. I only need to… catch my breath."

Nara clutched the weakened man, holding him steady until she was sure he wasn't going to collapse in the doorway.

"Is it your heart? Did you take your medicine today?" she queried as she gently guided him toward a chair beside the counter. Easing him down, Nara patted the pockets of his thin flannel shirt, seeking the bottle of tiny white tablets.

"They are not there," Biyen stated. "I do not need those pills. I am well."

He weakly waved her off, backing up the motion with a forced smile. Nara didn't buy it. Even if she wanted to believe his stubborn assurances, the ghostly pallor that colored his face told a different story.

Reluctantly leaving him, the young woman dashed to the nearby cooler and retrieved a bottle of water. Returning to the frail man's side, she twisted off the cap and held it out for him to drink.

"Where have you been?" she demanded as he slowly sipped the clear liquid. There was no missing the smudges of dirt on her uncle's trousers or the smear of dried blood underneath the nails of his left hand.

"I went for a walk," Biyen replied innocently.

"A walk?" Nara cried out. "Uncle, you know you aren't supposed to be out in the woods. You promised!"

His face lifted up; his dark brown eyes catching hers and holding them with an unyielding gaze. Biyen wasn't young anymore, but getting him to admit it was impossible. The old Indian wasn't about to let anyone, much less the white BOI physician, tell him what he could or couldn't do.

"Please, uncle," Nara pleaded. "I worry about you."

He smiled and placed a weathered hand gently on her cheek, caressing her jaw before tenderly patting her shoulder.

"You needn't worry, _Nidooshimekwem. _My guardian watches over me," he assured her.

Nara shook her head and snorted in response. It was futile to argue with Biyen. He was too set in his ways, too insistent on living as though he could single-handedly revive the Ojibwe nation to some semblance of its former stature. Like her, he despised the casinos and Bingo halls, but unlike Nara, Biyen trusted implicitly in the old spiritual ways. He didn't accept formal education, resisted any attempt to modernize living conditions on the reservation, and as was now vividly apparent, refused any sort of contemporary medical intervention.

He drove her crazy sometimes, yet she loved him more than anyone else on the planet. He was her last remaining relative and truly the only one, dead or alive, who had ever shown her any amount of affection in return.

Kneeling down, Nara gently placed a kiss on his tanned forehead, smiling inwardly when he leaned forward to receive the affection.

Sure, he was a stubborn, sometimes cranky, and most definitely an old-fashioned pain in the ass, but she cared about him nonetheless.

"So? What was so important out in the forest that you had to leave before dawn?" she asked, turning back to pick up the boxes strewn across the floor.

"I don't have many sunrises left. I intend to see them all," Biyen answered.

"And the view from the front porch is different somehow?"

"It is not the same. It is not the land the creator prepared for us. It is not the lake," the old man steadfastly replied.

"It's just a lake, uncle. Just a lake with lots of pretty trees and such around it. There's nothing special about it. And killing yourself to go out there all the time doesn't make you any more or less a man, _or Ojibwe_," Nara insisted.

Biyen smiled sadly. "That is the problem, Nara. You do not see the importance of the lake or the land. Too many like you have forsaken the tribal ways. There are fewer and fewer to pass on our traditions."

Nara sighed. It was the same old argument. She knew Biyen wanted nothing more than to rejuvenate the reservation, to inspire the remaining residents to take part in a revival of the old customs. But just like the little store she worked in, there was no competing with the selection and prices of the new WalMart Superstore just down the road in Thief River Falls; and there was no way to win against the hedonistic attractions of modern culture.

"Maybe there can be a compromise?" she suggested after a moment. "Can't we respect the old ways while living in the twenty-first century? It's not the eighteen-hundreds, anymore uncle. Does the creator _really _mind indoor toilets?"

Biyen rose stiffly and scowled. "I do not like your humor, niece. In my grandfather's time, women with a biting tongue would have never been chosen by a worthy warrior."

"I'm not looking for a worthy warrior, uncle. I'm not looking for anyone…" Nara answered_. I don't care if I spend the rest of my life as a bitter shrew, I don't need another man._

"You are a beautiful young woman, you should be happy and cared for. You should have many strong sons."

"You looking to hook me up, uncle Biyen? Would you have me barefoot and pregnant in the teepee?" Nara teased.

"Our people need strong warriors. We need to become what the Creator meant for us to be as a people."

"Well, don't look at me to single-handedly be the mother for the Ojibwe nation," Nara snapped back, picking up a cloth and angrily wiping down the countertop, even though she'd already done that hours earlier.

"I do not need you," Biyen assured her.

"Oh? You don't need me, huh?" Nara snarled. "Fine! But the next time you go off on your daily commune with nature, don't come crawling back to me when your heart's ready to burst out of your chest."

Biyen stood and slowly ambled over to her. Placing a hand on her shoulder, he gripped her gently and turned her around.

For her part, Nara didn't hide her anger or hurt. She faced the old man, eyes misting with tears.

"I'm sorry, _Nidooshimekwem_. You misunderstood me," the elderly Indian said softly. "I care about you very much. The Creator blessed me the day you arrived at my home."

"Then what, Uncle Biyen," she asked, not bothering to use the Ojibwe endearment as he had. "Don't you understand that you're the only one I have left? I just worry about you."

"I know, Nara. I never meant that I did not need you. The Creator has shown me a way to strengthen the People. He has provided the means to protect us. "

She stared at him a long moment, noting the sincerity in his eyes as he spoke. Her uncle was always matter-of-fact when he discussed his beliefs, but there was something ominous about his tone now.

"Uncle, have you done something?" Nara asked suspiciously.

The pause before he answered did nothing to alleviate her misgivings. Even the wide, gaping smile he offered didn't minimize Nara's concern. But she caved when he gently pushed her head down and planted a kiss on the top of her forehead.

"Don't worry, _Nidooshimekwem_. Everything will be alright," he whispered in her ear.

She closed her eyes; Biyen's words melting into her mind as his deep voice and rich accent lulled her into believing him.

When she looked up, he was already heading for the door. She watched him walk away; tracking his progression as he slowly shuffled his way down the side of the highway. She knew he'd turn off the road and take the path that cut through the woods leading back to the little cabin at the edge of the reservation.

Nara still couldn't shake the worry that nibbled at the back of her mind. It wasn't really fear for Biyen's safety, because she knew he could take care of himself. Iit was something else, something more insidious. She could just feel it.

"What are you up to, uncle?" she wondered aloud, watching as his form blended into the encroaching forest.

dwWsw

They reached Red Lake just after lunchtime, the Impala submersed in utter silence since their earlier argument. Sam had to admit that he was pretty impressed; normally Dean couldn't stay quiet for any longer than ten minutes. No matter how angry he was, the older man almost always gave in and started talking again. It was just something he did, that part of Dean that couldn't hold a grudge against his brother, no matter what the offense.

But as the miles passed by in continued quiet, Sam's concern increased. Even more frightening was that Dean hadn't bothered to turn on any music. Normally, when his brother wanted to avoid any sort of conversation he broke out Ozzie or even worse, Metallica's Black album. Nothing said "shut the hell up and leave me alone" for Dean like _Unforgiven_.

And yet, there hadn't been a sound for nearly a hundred and fifty miles. It was unnatural, and it shook Sam to his core.

Quiet Dean was the result of him either being unconscious or about to explode. Sam preferred neither condition and since his brother was still driving, then unconsciousness was obviously ruled out.

That only left the latter, and the reason why the young hunter sat nervously chewing at the edge of a fingernail. Waiting for Dean to erupt was like watching the timer on a bomb; you knew the ending was going to be bloody, but after a point, you just wanted the numbers to tick down and give you some reprieve from the ongoing stress.

So when Dean pulled abruptly into the parking lot outside a rundown bar, Sam tensed and held his breath.

He watched wordlessly as his brother killed the engine and nearly bolted from the driver's seat. Sam jumped slightly when Dean slammed the door, but he followed his sibling and slowly exited the vehicle.

"There's a motel right over there," Dean announced, motioning down the road in the direction of the flickering "vacancy" sign. "Check us in, I'll be back later."

Sam eyes darted between the motel and the foreboding-looking bar. "A little early to be hitting the bottle, isn't it? Or are you in to drinking your meals now?"

The look Dean shot Sam couldn't have been more lethal if the hunter had been pointing a machine gun at him. Sam knew he'd gone too far, but considering that any attempt to talk rationally had utterly failed before, then perhaps being blunt was the key to getting through to his brother.

Dean snorted and shook his head. "I've managed to take care of myself just fine, little brother. While you were studying to be Matlock and playing house with Jessica, I was out here watching my own back. I didn't need you to watch over me then, and I sure as hell don't need your holier-than-thou bullshit now. You want this hunt, then go scope out the area. I'll be back after I'm good and numb and the sound of your voice yapping in my ears has been reduced to a dull hum."

And with that, Sam watched as his brother turned and stalked off toward the front door of the tavern. He waited speechlessly, hoping Dean might glance back over his shoulder, but it didn't happen. Sam even considered trailing after him, but refrained, knowing without a doubt that further confrontation would only lead to a replay of Red Lodge.

No, it was better to let Dean work it out his own way. Sam would wait till his brother staggered into the motel, accept Dean's alcohol-induced apology and then throw a blanket over him and pray that everything would be back to normal in the morning.

_Back to normal?_ He mused. Had _anything _been normal since Dad's death?

He stared a moment longer at the closed entrance to the bar. Hoping that just maybe, Dean would reappear, but knowing he wouldn't. With a deep sigh, Sam moved to the back of the Chevy and grabbed his duffle and backpack with the laptop. Slinging them over his shoulder, he glanced around the small collection of buildings before heading for the motel.

The office for the Hiawatha Inn smelled like old booze and cigarettes , causing Sam to worry about the condition of the rooms. He shrugged, stepping up to the counter. Not like they hadn't stayed in some pretty nasty places before. He'd just be sure to sleep fully clothed and keep his bags up off the floor.

"Wha'dya need?"

Sam startled slightly when the old woman suddenly appeared at the desk. She was barely taller than the counter and he wondered if she'd actually been underneath it when he first arrived.

"Uh… ummm… I need a room," he responded. _Maybe two, depending on what mood Dean is in when he gets back… _"A double please."

She looked at him warily, long silver hair framing a tanned face that was covered with more lines than a roadmap. After a second, she smiled; a wide toothless grin that did little to set Sam at ease, _or his stomach. _

"They're all doubles, except for the honeymoon suite. Do you _need _the honeymoon suite?" she asked with a leer.

Sam faltered when she winked at him. "Uh… no… no ma'am. It's just me and my brother."

"Take your pick then. Got a favorite number?"

"Err… no- maybe number twenty?" Sam replied hesitantly, looking at the board with numbered keys hanging from it. _Please let number twenty be far away from the office… pleasepleaseplease…_

"Twenty it is. How long ya' staying?" she then asked, spinning the register around for Sam to sign.

"Um, I'm not sure. My brother and I are doing research on migratory birds up around here," he lied.

"Bullshit!" she exclaimed. "I saw you pull in, spotted that fancy car when it hit town. Saw that _brother_ of yours bee-line into the Bear's Den. Can't imagine he's gonna find any birds in there, but he's likely to find all the trouble he can handle."

"Trouble?" Sam asked worriedly.

The old woman smiled again. "Your brother just walked into the only place that serves alcohol within twenty miles of the reservation. Let's just say, he's gonna get noticed."

Sam sighed, glancing over his shoulder in the direction of the bar. Grabbing the room key from the counter, he headed out the screen door. He considered going over to warn Dean, but instead continued on towards the room, his own stubbornness superseding any desire to play nice with his brother.

Unlocking the door, he tentatively reached in and flipped on the light. His gaze swept the room and he was pleasantly surprised at the conditions inside. Although a tad musty, the place was clean and nicely – if sparsely- furnished.

Stepping inside, he tossed his duffle on the near mattress, knowing instantly that he'd need to move it later when Dean commandeered the bed closest to the door. Next, he moved over to the tiny table, gently placing the bag containing his laptop on its surface before continuing on to the bathroom.

While the plumbing was ancient, it was clean and he twisted on the handle to the cold water, unsurprised that it was initially rust-colored as it poured from the tap. Waiting till it ran clear, he then scooped up a handful and splashed it over his face , sighing as the cool water eased some of the tension from him.

Staring at his reflection in the mirror, Sam couldn't help noticing the small, fading blue bruise on the left side of his jaw. He touched it gingerly, noting that it was still tender but not overly so. His brother could pack one helluva punch when he was pissed, and Sam was grateful that Dean had been driving during their last spat, else he might have been on the receiving end of another right hook.

He just didn't understand his brother lately. One minute, Dean was quiet and withdrawn, and the next he was a powder keg soaked in gasoline and just waiting for a spark. And it didn't seem to matter who or what provided the flame, his brother reacted with a vehemence and brutality that Sam had never seen in him before.

It wasn't just the way Dean had attacked the vampire at the mill, it was how he was with everyone around him, _especially Sam_, which made the young hunter worry. He knew his brother was hurting, silently aching as he tried to come to grips with their Dad's death. And Sam wasn't stupid; he knew what Dean was thinking.

Without a doubt, his brother was blaming himself for their father's death. It was obvious wasn't it? Dean suddenly sitting up and gasping for air as the endotracheal tube suffocated him, and then, only a couple of hours after the doctor pronounced him miraculously well, their dad mysteriously lay dead on the floor of his room.

And there was the matter of the Colt.

If he hadn't been suspicious about his dad's passing, then the inexplicable disappearance of the demon-killing weapon seemed to confirm his worst suspicions. Somehow, John had traded the Colt for Dean's life, and along the way, he'd been taken down in the process.

It was the only logical explanation for what happened at the hospital back in Missouri. Yet, even though Sam was relatively certain, there was no way he was going to bring the topic up to his brother.

Dean had accused him of dealing with his grief and guilt by taking on any job that came around, of his determination to hunt out of respect for their dad being "too little and too late." Yet his brother was so buried within his own grief and guilt that he could barely function. Sam saw it, and if he had worked out the connection between Dean's recovery and their dad's death, then his brother most likely had as well.

Turning off the water, Sam dried his hands and went back to the main room. H dropped into the chair, regarding his watch as he booted up his laptop.

_One-fortyfive… _

Hunger burned in his belly; the sated feeling from the pancakes at breakfast had faded away hours ago. He didn't recall seeing any place to eat when they had first entered the tiny town, but he had noticed a small grocery store just at the edge of the city limits.

Sam debated whether to wander down that way to pick up some soda and junk food to have in the room. While he was there, he could also poke around and see if there was any intel on the deaths that they were here to check out.

Maybe if he had some solid information, he could get Dean's head into the hunt.

Rising up, he grabbed his brown Carhart and the key to the room. Pulling the cell phone from the pocket, Sam considered calling his brother to let him know where he was going… _just in case_.

"Why bother," he mumbled, and jammed it back into the jacket. "If Dean wants to be a stubborn jackass then let him."

Yet, even as he uttered the words, there was no real hostility in them; his anger abating nearly as fast as it had erupted.

The heated exchange from earlier replayed in Sam's head as he stood there; all the hurtful words, all the painful emotions that resided just below the surface of what both of them were really trying to say. He wanted to be angry with Dean, wanted to lay the burden of their stressed relationship on his brother's shoulders and ignore his own contribution to situation.

But he couldn't.

He _had _picked a fight with their dad that last day. He'd never had a chance to try and make amends. But even more damning was the realization that even given the knowledge of his father's impending death, Sam wasn't sure it would have changed a thing. They'd spent too many years butting heads for either of them to back down or utter the word "sorry."

Dean had been right. He did feel guilty as Hell. Years wasted with fighting, time spent apart with no communication, his desire to leave hunting behind and live his own life had only succeeded in driving a wedge further between him and his family. And while he'd made up for some of that lost time since rejoining his brother, there would be no chance of reconciliation with his Dad now.

Which brought him back to Dean; no way did he want to repeat that mistake with his brother.

His appetite gone, Sam tossed his jacket back on the bed and dropped down beside it. Engulfed by the silence of the room, he swallowed hard against the lump in his throat even as the remorse raged on inside him.

dwWsw

Dean leaned heavily against the worn edge of the bar, his hands wrapped around a half-empty and warming bottle of beer. He picked at the label, slowly peeling off pieces of paper just as he'd done to the five before this one. The place was relatively quiet; only the bartender, some long-haired guy passed out at a corner table and himself, occupying the small establishment. There was no music playing and only the soft snoring of the drunk broke the silence.

"You want a cold one?" the bartender abruptly asked, his curt tone matching the scowl on his face.

Dean looked up from the bottle, startled by the harsh voice. The bartender was huge, easily six-three and well over two hundred and fifty pounds. His size alone didn't really faze the hunter; it was more the long jagged scar that split the right side of the man's face that made him imposing. Starting just below the brute's eye, it carved a wide channel through a tanned cheek and ended at the edge of his jaw.

"What are you staring at, you sonofabitch?"

Dean blinked rapidly, his mouth fumbling to find the words. "Err… nothing… sorry," he stammered.

Tipping the bottle towards the big man, he requested another along with a whiskey chaser, then downed the last dregs of amber liquid and slid the empty across the shiny top. The bartender deftly snagged the bottle and in the same fluid movement, he twisted off the cap to another and handed the fresh one back to Dean.

"Don't s'pose you serve any food here?" Dean chanced.

The man's glare wordlessly answered his question. "Guess not," Dean mumbled.

He glanced down at his watch. _Six-twenty… _

_Missed lunch_, he mused. _Working on missing dinner. Wonder if Sammy ate?_

Funny, no matter how much Sam could piss him off, he still worried about the kid. Digging into the pocket of his jeans, he flipped open his cell, his thumb scrolling down the contacts list and hovering over the send button.

_Just call him, jackass…_

But as Sam's words from earlier replayed through his alcohol-numbed brain, Dean angrily snapped the phone shut and jammed it back into the denim.

_Screw him! He thinks I'm so bad… he thinks all I ever did was blindly follow Dad's orders… he thinks I don't have a mind of my own… _

_He's right though, isn't he, Dean? You can't think for yourself and you've always followed Dad's orders to the tee._ _That's why John told you what he did. He knew you'd do whatever he commanded. Such the loyal, obedient dog…_

_Yeah? Well, not this time. I'm done with being responsible for Sam. I'm done with having this huge fucking weight on my shoulders. It's not fair and I just can't do it anymore. How could Dad expect me to do something like this? How could he dump this on me and then leave? _

Dean tilted back the bottle as his internal dialogue raged on. The alcohol wasn't doing its job. He might have been numb enough to dull the edge of Sam's accusations, but he wasn't nearly drunk enough to silence the condemning voice that lived inside his head.

_Sam was right. You are screwed up. You can't think past Dad's death and how it's your fault, can't concentrate on anything but the inevitability of his last words. Dad was wrong, you aren't the person to carry out his orders. All his training, all the years of watching out for your baby brother, how the hell are you going to protect him now? The Colt is gone, the Yellow-eyed demon is still out there, still hunting you both. Dad could have done this easy; you can't! You're nothing without him to fall back on!_

The door to the bar swung open, the cooling evening air sweeping inside as three newcomers entered. Dean barely acknowledged the arrival of the large men, so buried within his own thoughts.

"Another whiskey," he ordered without looking up. _More alcohol, that's the key. Keep drinking until you can't think, until you can't hear the voices anymore…_

"Wait your turn."

Dean lifted his head, seeking the source of the rude voice. Beside him, the smaller of the three men glared at him defiantly.

"No problem, dude. I'm sure there's plenty to go around," he answered easily.

"Not for you," the second man interjected. "You don't belong here."

Dean stood up, sliding slightly forward on the barstool and placing his body so he could easily move clear of the counter.

"Look, I just want to have a couple drinks. I'm not looking for any trouble," he assured them, extending his open hands in an effort to ease the situation.

The nearest man sneered; and all three turned to face the young hunter. They were carbon copies of each other, all dark skinned, with long black hair and lean, muscular bodies.

"Well, we don't want you here," the shorter man informed him, rubbing the knuckles of one hand against the palm of another.

Dean groaned at the thinly veiled threat. "Something tells me you guys have seen _Billy Jack_ one time too many," he taunted.

The joke was received about as well as Dean had expected, each of the men exchanging angry glances.

"And _you_ obviously can't count," the middle man threw back.

They advanced toward him slowly, none of the three making any effort to hide their intentions.

Dean downed the last of the beer in the bottle and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He smiled, never losing eye contact as the men separated and began to circle around him.

"Oh… this is gonna be fun," he mumbled, a sly smile spreading across his face.

If the alcohol wouldn't quiet the screaming in his head, then maybe a good fight would.


	3. And the Road I Walk Is Paved With Sorrow

_Sorry for the delay- it took a little longer than I expected to move and unpack at the new house – and then a few days more to get back in the swing of writing (exhaustion will do that to ya' I s'pose!)_

_Huge thanks as always to my awesome beta Mizpah – She deserves the extra cookie for going over this chapter even though she was heading to see the 'Boys' this weekend for the big SN Aussie Con… I can't imagine why she'd be distracted… lol!_

_And of course to Steph- for the cheerleading or swift kick – whichever is needed. _

_UBER big thanks to everyone that fav'd this story - I hope I don't disappoint you! Thanks for all the kind reviews and emails. I tried to reply to everyone- but if I didn't- it's just me – no offense!_

Disclaimer: Never was, never were, never will be…*sighs*

**Worthy**

**Chp. 3**

_**And the road I walk is paved with sorrow**_

_Six o'clock… just friggin' great!_ Sam silently bemoaned, looking first at his watch and then the motel room door. The entrance mocked him, stubbornly remaining closed while the young hunter wanted nothing more than to see his intractable sibling walk, stagger or stumble through it.

"Five hours! You'd think Dean would have drank enough by now; or at least be hungry," he grumbled.

Pulling down the screen on his laptop, Sam leaned back in the chair, stretching his arms over his head and enjoying the satisfying "pop" of cartilage in his shoulders. He sighed, glancing at the sparse notes spread on the table before him. After spending the better part of the afternoon in research, he didn't have much to show for it.

There still wasn't any connection to the five deaths beyond their proximity to Red Lake, nothing more than the bodies all missing their livers. But Sam_ knew _there had to be something; he could just feel it.

And yet, all of his searching hadn't turned up a single significant clue. Sure, there were reports all over the country of murders involving organ removal, but there was no pattern to them and in nearly every other case, the victims had not been as brutalized as the bodies discovered around this area of northcentral Minnesota. Every single one of the corpses found near Red Lake had been covered in bruises and small lacerations. It was almost as though each man had been beaten or clawed before they were killed.

Maybe it was some sort of animal. But it couldn't be a werewolf or some other form of shapeshifter as the facts didn't seem to fit those creatures' M.O.'s. Maybe Dean was right, maybe this was nothing more than another Bender-family wannabe looking to make their version of human pâté.

Too tired to concentrate any longer, Sam pressed the heels of his hands against fatigued eyes, rubbing them until they watered. Research could wait till tomorrow; right now he needed something to eat and a breath of fresh air. Grabbing the room key and his jacket, he made for the door, pausing only momentarily as he considered leaving Dean a note.

"It's not like I'd be hard to find in this little town; assuming Dean cared enough to even wonder where I went," he groused.

Throwing open the door, the tall hunter stepped out into the fading light of the early evening. Another couple of weeks and it would be pitch-black by this time, the northern Minnesota summer finally succumbing to the changing season.

Sam tolerated the fall, despised the winter and generally couldn't wait until spring came around with all its allusion to new life and hope. Mostly, he just hated being cold. Cold reminded him of death and he'd certainly known enough of that in his life.

Still, this evening wasn't half-bad, he admitted to himself as he strolled along the side of the road that cut through the center of Red Lake. A gentle breeze tousled his hair and carried the faint odor of mint from the thick coverage of field thistle that bordered each side of the highway.

Passing the Bear's Den, he paused briefly, staring at the door to the bar and considering whether or not he should go check on Dean. The place looked even more intimidating in the waning light, the shadows from the nearby forest creeping outward to envelope the building like the tentacles of some nightmarish monster.

Sam shook off the foreboding feeling, chalking it up to nothing more than the case and the stress between him and Dean. He chuckled nervously, forcing his attention away from the rundown bar and up the street to the small grocery store.

"Dean will be back when he's good and ready. No sense in pissing him off more by trying to talk to him again," Sam muttered as he trudged along.

Yet, his gaze was forced back toward the Bear's Den as two pickup trucks pulled into the lot, the occupants pouring out of the vehicles engulfed in boisterous laughter. Three men, all large and with black hair flowing behind them, left little to the imagination about their heritage, and possibly their intentions for the evening, as they pushed at each other to reach the entrance.

Sam paused once more, his eyes narrowing as he watched the new arrivals. Everything about them screamed "trouble" and the motel clerk's word suddenly echoed in his head.

_Your brother just walked into the only place that serves liquor within twenty miles of the reservation… he's gonna get noticed…_

The young hunter grimaced. Dean had a way of being "noticed" in a packed bar on the best of occasions; Sam could only imagine the trouble his brother could get into in a place that was so strongly segregated.

_Dean can take care of himself…_ his inner voice assured him. _Besides, he doesn't want you around him right now. He made that abundantly clear. _

"_I'll be back after I'm good and numb and the sound of your voice yapping in my ears has been reduced to a dull hum," Dean's angry last words echoed inside his head_

"Yeah, that was pretty clear," Sam repeated aloud, looking away as the three men disappeared behind the bar's solid door.

Continuing down the road, he reached the tiny store just as a dark-haired young woman was flipping the sign over to reveal "Closed" in large red letters. Dashing forward, he cleared the steps two at a time, waving his hands as he yelled to catch her attention.

"Wait! Wait… please!" he shouted through the closed door, his hands and face pressed against the glass.

She stopped, pausing with her back to him a few feet from the door. Sam held his breath, silently hoping she'd turn around but inwardly not counting on it, considering how his day had gone thus far.

The woman abruptly spun about and there was no mistaking the irritation on her face as she slowly walked back toward him. Sam offered her his best smile; the perfect complement to his pleading blue-green eyes.

She glared at him, her own deep brown orbs showing no hint of humor or relenting and for a moment, Sam felt his chances at getting anything to eat slipping away. But at the last second, he saw her loose a deep sigh as her hand reached for the deadbolt.

"Thank-you… thankyouthankyouthankyou," the tall hunter rapidly offered as the slim brunette pulled open the door and motioned him inside.

"You owe me," she grumbled, but Sam could tell there wasn't much threat in her tone.

"I'm sorry. I promise I just want a couple of things," he apologized, trailing behind her.

"It's alright," she responded with a tired smile. "I was just waiting for my uncle anyway. He insists on coming by at closing."

Sam moved toward the long cooler, slowly perusing the meager soda offerings. He could have had his choice of beers, but the only non-alcoholic beverage in the case was Dr. Pepper and Orange Crush.

The girl must have noticed his reluctance to select something as she drew up behind him. "Old Milwaukee is on sale," she offered. "If you're not particular."

Sam laughed. "I'm not, but no thanks. I'm mostly looking for some stuff to stock up the motel room while we're here."

"You staying over at the Hiawatha?" she asked.

He nodded, grabbing a six-pack of Dr. Pepper and two large bottles of water. Balancing them precariously in the crook of his elbow, Sam moved on to hunt for other provisions.

Scanning the snack food aisle, he was disgusted to find that nearly everything on the shelves was either laden with sugar or coated in salt. He didn't mind chips and cookies, but unlike Dean, he didn't consider them a food group.

He groaned, settling on a bag of Cheetos for his brother and a box of Chex Mix for himself. Adding those to the items tucked between his arm and chest he glanced around, spotting some fresh produce along the far wall. Sam made his way over, pleased to see a variety of apples and oranges on display. Selecting several, he piled them on top the other items, trapping them between the box of Chex Mix and his chin.

Heading for the counter to pay, he almost made it with his precariously stacked purchases. But gravity was a nasty bitch and Sam soon found himself juggling produce and soda in a Jim Carreyesque manner. He danced around, his long body spinning as he tried to catch the oranges that popped out of his hands like small, greased balls. Catching one only succeeded in making him drop the apples; dodging to snag the apples only allowed the Dr Pepper to slip from his grasp.

The six-pack dropped to the floor with a loud clatter and an instant hiss as two of the cans ruptured. Dean's Cheetos fell next, only to be crushed underneath Sam's size fourteen shoes as he dodged the spray of soda, his feet hopping about as he desperately tried to stop the disaster in the making.

It was par for the day's course, Sam admitted ruefully, looking down at the solitary apple he'd managed to maintain a grip on while all his other purchases lay strewn across the floor. He waited for the brunette's harsh words, knowing he deserved them but reluctant to have one more person yell at him today. Instead, only laughter greeted his ears.

He looked around, following the sound till he spotted the young woman leaning against the counter, her arms wrapped around her abdomen as she howled with laughter.

"I didn't know the circus was coming to town," she chortled.

"I'm really sorry," Sam apologized. "I'll pay for all of this and even clean it up."

"Ah, it's okay," the young woman answered with a wave of her hand. She quickly moved past him, disappearing into the back of the store. Returning with a trashcan and mop, she appraised the tall hunter, her face still glowing with mirth.

"This is the funniest thing I've seen in ages. Everyone around here is always so serious… or drunk. Watching someone make a fool out of themselves while they're stone sober, well, that's almost worth the mess."

Sam smiled back. "I'm glad I could brighten your day."

"I'm Nara," she said, extending her hand to him. He accepted it, surprised by her firm grip as they exchanged the greeting.

"Sam," he replied.

He clutched her hand a moment longer than necessary as their eyes met; her rich brown all but melting into pools of warm coffee as his blue-green took in the soft features of her face. She pulled away abruptly as though his touch was acid burning her skin, and an awkward silence came between them.

"So, Sam, what brings you to middle of nowhere Minnesota?" Nara asked, her gaze averted away as she knelt down and busied herself with cleaning up the mess he'd created.

"Uh, well my brother and I are doing some… er… research on… um…" Sam paused, not sure what story to offer the brunette.

Nara let out an exasperated sigh and Sam saw her roll her eyes.

"Save the lies. If you don't want to tell me, then fine," she snapped, rising to her feet and slamming the damaged cans of soda into the trashcan.

"I wasn't going to lie," Sam quickly replied.

"You're a man… your mouth was open, you were going to lie."

It was Sam's turn to snort. "Wow!" he exclaimed. "What was his name and what did he do; sleep with your best friend or something?"

She spun around and glared at him, her eyes flaring wide. He thought for a moment she might hit him with the mop, her knuckles whitening as she clenched her hand open and closed around the handle.

"I'm sorry," he offered after a second. "I shouldn't have said that. You were nice enough to let me come in and you didn't toss me out on my ass even though I turned your store into a disaster area. I imagine you think I'm a complete loser, don't you?"

Nara's glare softened; the anger diminishing as she succumbed to his self-deprecating humor. She chuckled then and Sam relaxed slightly.

"Nah, it's me that should be apologizing. I'm really sorry, Sam. I'm not normally so bitchy with customers; it's just been a long day. Besides, it's pretty obvious you don't belong around here, so I guess I'm just suspicious by nature," Nara explained.

Sam picked up the crushed box of snacks and threw them in the garbage bag before stooping to gather the scattered oranges and apples. Nara moved at the same time and their heads smacked into each other with an audible thud.

Both dropped back on their haunches, simultaneously laughing and rubbing bruised foreheads.

"I'm so sorry," Sam fumbled. "I bet right about now you're wishing you'd never unlocked that door."

Nara laughed easily, her tan face lighting up as she giggled. "I would have been safer with a psycho serial killer I think," she teased. "At least with Freddie or Jason, I would have seen the machete coming."

"How do you know I don't have a machete back in my motel room," Sam asked. _Or the trunk of the car…_

"Ah, you're not the type."

"The type? You have a 'type' when it comes to psycho serial killers?"

"Yeah, you know, horribly disfigured, fixated on their mothers, blood-stained clothes. And of course, there's the background music. You don't have the eerie background music," she joked, picking up the remaining apples and carrying them back to the counter.

"So, I have no background music. You didn't mention anything about the horrible disfigurement," Sam returned.

She paused, taking a step backward as she looked him over. "Nah, not too horrible…"

"Gee, thanks," he answered, feigning being wounded.

"Oh, come on. Do you think those sad eyes are gonna work on me?"

"They aren't?"

"Not yet…"

_Hmm… not yet, huh?_ Sam quietly noted.

"So, Nara, my brother and I are probably going to be around the area for a bit. Is there anywhere nearby to get a hot meal? I'm afraid if I rely on shopping at your little store, either we'll starve or I'll put you out of business with everything I destroy."

She laughed once more and shook her head. "Only place remotely close is the restaurant at the Seven Clans Casino over near Thief River. It's reasonable, all-you-can eat and the casino is open basically twenty-four hours."

"Hmm, my brother at an all-you-can eat buffet inside a casino. That could be dangerous," Sam replied.

"Well, most people only come to these parts for the casinos. It's about the only attraction around here unless you're into hunting and fishing," Nara bemoaned.

"Not for us."

"No?"

"Nah, we're here on business."

She eyed him again suspiciously but before she could speak, the small bell above the front door jingled. Both the young woman and Sam turned to see the newcomer.

The diminutive man looked older than anyone Sam thought he'd ever seen, his deeply bronzed face lined with crags and fissures that belied years of exposure to the elements and no-doubt a wealth of experiences. He looked the stereotypical old Indian and Sam couldn't help but stare at him.

"_Nidooshimekwem, _you have a customer at this hour?" Biyen asked worriedly.

"Uncle, this is Sam. He was desperate and I felt sorry for him. Besides, he didn't have a machete," she replied with a chuckle, looking back at the younger Winchester.

"Machete?" the old man queried with confusion.

"Sorry, uncle. Just a joke between Sam and me," Nara answered.

"Nice to meet you, sir," Sam greeted, offering out his hand.

Biyen snorted, ignoring the proffered handshake with distaste.

"Nimshooo! Be nice!" the young woman chastised him.

"We should go, Nara. It will be moonrise soon and I have things to attend to in the morning," the old man reminded her.

"What? Another trip out to the lake, I suppose. Uncle, why can't you just rest tomorrow? Please! For me?"

Biyen shook her off with a wave of his hand, clearly disregarding her concern. "Are you ready to go?"

"Almost, just as soon as I take care of my customer," Nara replied stiffly.

Biyen grumbled, cast a glare at Sam and then slowly ambled toward the front door.

Sam observed the exchange, both the verbal and the body language going on between the old man and the young woman. He could see and hear the concern that Nara had for her uncle, but there was no mistaking the stubborn streak in the old Indian.

As an odd coldness settled inside the little store, Sam suddenly felt out of place; an interloper that couldn't have stuck out more if he'd been standing next to Snow White's seven dwarfs. He shuffled nervously, his hands finding their way into the pockets of his jeans just like they always did when he was uncomfortable.

"Don't mind him, Sam. My uncle is a proud man and I love him dearly, but he doesn't trust any white man," Nara explained.

"It's alright," Sam replied. "I s'pose he's not had much reason to in his lifetime."

Nara smiled at him as she pulled open a paper bag and began replacing some of the items Sam had sought to purchase. He followed behind her, taking the sack from Nara as she grabbed more soda and bottles of water. Coming to the produce section, she snagged several apples, added in the oranges and then, before he could question it, she topped the bag with a small bunch of bananas.

He trailed her down the last aisle toward the counter and fished out several bills to pay for the purchase and the earlier damaged supplies. Nara pulled a twenty from his grasp, leaving the remaining bills in his hand. Sam started to protest, but she quieted him with a quick shake of her head.

"It was worth the laugh," she chided him, placing the money in the register drawer. "And as much as I'd love to hang out and see if you can walk back to the motel without falling on your face, I really need to get home."

Sam chuckled, unperturbed by her teasing. He thanked her profusely, tucking the bag securely in the crook of his arm. Walking with her to the door, he stepped outside and paused as she locked up.

"I'm ready, Nimishoo," Nara called out.

The old man did not answer. Instead, Biyen stood at the edge of the sidewalk, his back to them, his attention focused across the street. Sam followed his gaze, his eyes adjusting to the darkness that had settled while he'd been inside.

A dim glow from the Bear's Den's lone parking lot light barely illuminated the action that was taking place outside the bar. The shapes of several men could easily be seen, three of them facing off against a fourth.

Nara moved up to his side, groaning loudly as she took in the scene.

"Just great!" she complained. "Who the hell have the Kobine brothers managed to pick a fight with tonight?"

Sam heard her words, but he didn't reply. He could have easily answered her question even if he hadn't seen the quick bob of a short-cropped, light haired head or the tell-tale right hook that was delivered to the nearest of the three attackers.

He watched as one by one, the three larger men closed in on the lone shape, sometimes connecting with their blows but just as often being repelled by the vicious punches and kicks from their intended victim. The fight was lopsided, the Kobine brothers easily outweighing and outnumbering their prey, and Sam was sorely tempted to join the fray and help even the odds.

But deep down, Sam knew the solitary figure could fend for himself. After all, he wasn't horribly surprised to see the fight or recognize the man at the center of it.

Looking back to Nara, the young hunter mimicked her earlier groan. "That would be my brother, Dean," he stated. "And trust me when I say, the Kobine boys didn't bring enough brothers."

dwWsw

Dean moved slowly, a generous smile still played across his face as he freed himself from the confines bordered by the bar and the stool. There was no mistaking the intent of the three men standing before him; they were locals, this was "their" bar, and they were looking for a fight.

That was fine with him. He had been holding in enough pent-up anger and tension to level a small village. If these fools were looking for some action, then who was he to deny them?

"You sure you wanna do this?" Dean asked. "All I wanted was a drink, not trouble."

The closest of the three huffed, his mouth curled into a thin sneer. "Oh, the trouble is on the house. Consider us the local Welcome Wagon."

Dean chuckled and nonchalantly pushed up the sleeves on both arms, exposing skin that was marred by numerous silver lined scars. The "Mouth" of the group glanced down and the young hunter could tell that the man hadn't missed seeing the darkened knuckles of Dean's right hand. It was still tender from the fight with Gordon, several digits even somewhat swollen and slightly discolored. He rubbed them, not out of pain, but rather preparation. Like a street brawler, he was merely warming them up.

Running the edge of his thumb across his bottom lip, Dean smiled.

"Alright boys, if this is what you want, far be it from me to deny you a good ass-kicking," he warned. "Hope you have a good medical and dental plan."

They laughed as a collective, the taller two men behind "The Mouth" even diverting their attention as they snickered at the threat.

"Maybe we should leave him be, Jimmy," one of them suggested. "He's either too drunk or too stupid to fight if he thinks he can take us all on."

"Maybe he just can't count?" Jimmy "The Mouth" replied. "Either way, he's an arrogant bastard and doesn't belong here. He needs to be taught a lesson. Aaron, Wyatt, which of you wants first dibs?"

The other men exchanged glances but neither moved, their silent reluctance speaking volumes as the hunter sized them up. Unlike their smaller friend, these two seemed to sense the danger in provoking him.

Well past caring about the consequences, Dean was itching for the fight. Whether one of them or all three, it didn't matter now. He was committed to hurting them, even if it meant him being hurt in the process.

"Good God, what is it with all the talking?" he groaned. "I'm beginning to think you guys are just trying to kill me with boredom. Maybe it's all that long hair that threw me, but I thought you were men. Can you find a set of balls between you and throw a freakin' punch already?"

"The Mouth's" face turned beet red and his two cohorts alternated between incoherent stammering and uttering uncoordinated insults. It was comical and Dean couldn't help laughing.

His reaction only served to make the three men even angrier and they charged at him. He easily sidestepped Jimmy, grabbed Wyatt by the shoulders and tossed him to his left, then continued through by landing a solid blow on Aaron's chin.

Dean could feel the blood pumping through his veins, his heart racing from the injection of adrenalin. He moved warily, his gaze darting right and left as he watched for the next attack. This wasn't the first time he'd gone up against greater odds; despite being outnumbered, Dean knew he was the better fighter.

These guys were big, but they were brawlers, men accustomed to using their size yet lacking any significant skill. Unlike them, Dean had spent plenty of time training, countless hours working a heavy bag, even if his had been nothing more than a sand-filled sack tied from a low-hanging branch.

Dean knew his size was deceiving, counted on it in fact. Generally average in height and with compact musculature, he relied on his speed, his dexterity and most importantly, his refusal to back down. It was a lethal combination and anyone who knew anything about fighting, would have known to avoid someone like Dean Winchester.

Unfortunately for the Kobine brothers, they were too used to being the bullies in their own little corner of the world, always managing to find someone weaker to pick on. But their luck ended today, they just didn't know it yet.

Wyatt and Aaron came at Dean simultaneously, the latter landing a hard right that caught the hunter at the junction of his neck and collarbone. The blow wasn't painful, but the force of it pushed him into Wyatt's incoming left.

That punch caught Dean in the side of the ribs and he felt the air evacuate from his lungs as pain flared along his side. Despite the man's size and the force of his hit, Dean shook it off. There was time to allow the pain to have its hold later, never in the middle of a fight.

More punches were exchanged; Dean landing the higher percentage of his while the brothers struggled to find the space to operate. Another advantage when battling more than one opponent, he could easily strike at anyone that moved, while they, in turn, had to wait for an opening.

Using that knowledge, Dean lashed out with a flurry of kicks and punches. Like a whirling dervish, he struck flesh again and again, allowing himself a satisfied smile as the sound of pain-filled grunts reached his ears. The grin faded fast as he felt powerful arms grab him in a chokehold from behind.

Struggling against the thick forearm that was pulling against his throat, Dean was unable to protect himself from the other two men. With a sadistic sneer, Jimmy approached him. There was a long trail of blood from the corner of the man's mouth and his lower lip was split and already swelling. He spat out a mouthful of blood, a piece of broken tooth bouncing off the floor as he did.

"We got you now, asshole," the smaller man growled.

"I… see… you're still… trying... to talk… me to… death…" Dean wheezed, his voice hoarse from the pressure on his windpipe. "Told… ya'… you'd need… a dentist."

The man's lip curled; furious by his prey's continued defiance, his face glowing red with anger. Dean waited for him to get closer, fighting to keep his oxygen-deprived brain clear and focused.

When his attacker was about three feet away, Dean grabbed the arm encircling his neck. Using it as leverage, he pulled his body up off the floor, leaning into the man holding him from behind.

With all the strength he could muster, the young hunter kicked outward with both feet, his heavy boots slamming into Jimmy's chest and sending the man backwards to crash into edge of the bar. Without stopping, Dean then let his body go limp, sagging to the floor in much the same way Jimmy had just done. Off-balance, the unseen man behind him fell forward, chasing his deadweight and giving Dean the chance to pull him over his shoulder.

Gasping for air now that the pressure around his throat was gone, Dean didn't pause. Getting back to his feet and warily looking for the third brother, he placed a well-aimed kick to Wyatt's side, lifting the big man off the floor and rolling his body over into the base of a barstool.

Dean staggered slightly as he spun around, sensing before seeing the third brother. Throwing up his left arm, he tried to deflect the heavy chair that Aaron was swinging toward his head. The wood smashed into his forearm, shattering into several pieces that went flying outward in an explosion of splinters and spindles.

Pain flared in Dean's left arm while his hand and fingertips went suddenly numb. Curling the injured limb against his chest, he ducked Aaron's next punch, but couldn't avoid the man's solid right uppercut as it zeroed in on his face like a guided missile.

His head jerked sideways as rough knuckles connected with his temple. The corner of his eye split open, blood seeping down his cheek, his vision blurring from the blow. Dean stumbled backward, his brain filled with the buzzing of a thousand invisible bees.

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear it, Dean saw Aaron closing in. To his left, Wyatt was pulling himself upright, long black hair framing a bruised face and eyes so dark, the man could have been possessed.

Without a second thought, Dean lowered his right shoulder and charged into Aaron, hitting the man directly in the sternum. His legs continued to churn, driving them both toward the bar's entry. They hit the door with their combined weight and momentum, bursting through the wood frame and landing outside on the gravel covered parking lot.

The cool evening air caressed Dean's face, helping to bring him more alert and clear his punch-drunk head. He vaulted up from ground with more agility than he thought he could manage, wobbling slightly as he moved to distance himself from the downed man.

His eyes went to the bar's open entrance as Wyatt and a recovered Jimmy appeared in the doorway.

"You sonofabitch!" Jimmy snarled. "We're gonna mess you up good now."

"Bring it, you bitch," Dean growled back, lowering his shoulders and rising up on the balls of his feet.

They came at him in unison, all three men bloodied and with hate pouring off them in waves. Dean knew he had to finish this and soon, his own reserve of energy beginning to fade as too much alcohol and too little food and sleep began to take their toll.

Still, there was something about the fight that revitalized him. It gave him a chance to work out all the anger and pain he'd been accumulating since his dad's death. He channeled those emotions and took a step forward, meeting the three brothers in the center of the lot.

Like a movie being filmed in slow motion, Dean could count every blow he delivered as well as every hit he took. His fists smashed into faces, buried into the soft flesh of abdomens and cracked against hard jaws. He head-butted and kneed his way through them, lashing out wildly at anything that moved within his proximity.

The smell of blood wafted on the air. His or theirs, Dean didn't know and cared even less. He was on autopilot, pushed toward survival and blinded by all the pain bottled up inside him. No longer was he fighting the three Indian men. Instead, all his blurred vision could make out was a ghostly image of salt-and-pepper hair, a thick beard of the same color and dark brown eyes.

_Dad!_

_How could you just dump this on me and leave? _Dean's mind begged silently as he connected again with Wyatt's face, a combination of hits that shattered the man's nose and split open his left eyelid.

He back fisted Aaron next, catching the young man on the temple and dropping him to the ground unconscious._ How could you ask me to kill my brother?_

_You bastard! How could you leave me again? _Grabbing Jimmy, he ignored the solid blow to his ribs and held the smaller man firmly as he drove his knee again and again into the man's face.

_Why did you die for me? For me? _

Holding Jimmy upright by the collar, Dean struck over and over, his knuckles slick with a warm coating of the man's blood.

"Dean…"

_No! No, Dad. You can't make me do this…_ He swung again, his fist whooshing through the air as the target was pulled from his grasp.

"DEAN! Dean… stop it. He's done. They're all done."

He halted abruptly, his arms suddenly feeling like lead weights. Staggering backward, Dean felt someone grab him under the arms, holding him up as he swayed.

Blood stung his eyes and filled his mouth with a sickening taste. He ran the back of his hand across his face to wipe away the crimson film, spat a large clot onto the ground and sucked in a shuddering breath.

"Dean? You with me, man?"

Still focused on the three silent bodies spread out on the rough gravel, Dean blinked slowly as Sam's face came into view. His brother looked freaked, or worried. With Sam, sometimes it was hard to tell the difference.

"Did I win?" he asked with a weak chuckle.

"Ask that again in the morning when you can't move," Sam replied with irritation.

"I'm still conscious. They aren't…" Dean added. "I win!"

"Yeah, yeah, you're still conscious. How 'bout you try and stay that way until we get back to the motel? You drop here, you're sleeping here," the taller sibling informed him.

"Do you need some help?" a softer voice asked.

"Nah, he can stagger that far," Sam replied and Dean worked to see where the new voice had came from.

He spotted Nara just beyond Sam's shoulder. She was pretty, even if he was seeing two of her at the moment.

"I'm Dean," he introduced himself, forcing a lopsided smile on his face.

"You're a fool," the brunette answered. "Taking on the Kobine brothers is just suicidal. You must enjoy getting your ass handed to you."

"She loves me," Dean murmured groggily, looking back to Sam.

"Sure she does. 'Cause right now, you're so awesomely handsome," Sam agreed sarcastically.

"Is he gonna be alright?" Nara asked again.

"Yeah, he's had worse. I can patch him up."

"Nothing wrong with her helping," Dean suggested. "She'll probably be gentler than you ever are."

Sam ignored him and Nara merely snorted with disdain.

"Here's my cell number. Call me if you need anything. Otherwise, I open again at six," the young woman informed them before spinning around and heading back toward the small shadowed figure still standing at the edge of the sidewalk across the street.

"She wants me," Dean managed after a second.

"Shut up. Save your energy for walking," Sam replied hotly.

Dean considered teasing his brother further but he was spent, lacking the energy or desire for any further banter. His knees felt ready to collapse from underneath him and it was becoming increasingly more difficult to focus his eyes. He would have given anything at the moment for another stiff belt, but considered that his welcome was more than worn at the Bear's Den.

He looked around one final time at the three brothers, each beginning to move slightly as they struggled back to consciousness.

"Time to go," Dean agreed. "So what did you do this afternoon, Sammy?"

"Didn't get my ass beat for one thing," Sam snarked back as he guided Dean toward the motel.

"You never did know how to have any fun."

"I'll live vicariously through you, Dean. Thanks very much!"

They staggered slowly underneath the slight gleam of the rising moon, Sam with Dean's right arm draped across his shoulders. The sound of crickets and other waking night creatures provided a soft backdrop to Dean's grunts and groans of pain as he trudged back toward their room.

He was exhausted, bloodied and bruised, but at least he knew he'd get some rest; even if it was in the form of unconsciousness. He didn't care. For a few hours, the nagging voices in his head would be silenced, the recrimination he felt would be forgotten and the ghostly last image of his father's face would disappear, if only for a little while.

Nearing the motel's sidewalk, Dean glanced to his left and the edge of the encroaching forest. The hair rose up on the back of his neck and for a second, he thought he saw a face peering out from among the trees, eyes watching him as he slowly made his way to the room. But his blurred vision tricked him and the face was gone.

_Leave me alone, Dad…_ he whispered silently. _Just leave me alone for one night…_

Leaning heavily on his brother, Dean waited till Sam had the door opened before he staggered across the floor and collapsed facedown onto the bed. No more voices, no more apparitions of his dad, no more self-accusations of weakness and failure, for now, it was only blissful unconsciousness and the relative safety of another motel in another town.

dwWsw

As the door closed and the brothers disappeared into the dingy sanctuary of the motel room, a small figure stepped out from the edge of the woods. It watched the room with the same fascination as it had watched the fight outside the Bear's Den.

The figure smiled, nodding silently to itself. _This man would do just fine!_

Biyen Aysebun turned and walked back into the deepening darkness of the forest. There was much to prepare and he had very little time to waste.

Tbc…


	4. If I Swear That I

_Thanks to everyone that had the patience to stick with this story. I hadn't meant for it to be so long between chapters, but as I told my friends, this became the "chapter that wouldn't end". It took me a little while to get this and the next chapter down… but hopefully it was worth the wait._

_Big thanks to SnSam for the impromptu beta… and a HUGE 'get well soon!' to Mizpah. _

**Worthy**

Chapter 4 **If I swear that I'll change my ways**

Dean woke up in a strange room, in a strange bed and with a splitting headache; none of which was all_ that_ uncommon in his life. Most times, he could quickly reassemble the fractured pieces of memory and come up with the answers to the illusive who, what, when and where questions. But as he struggled to push up from the overly-lumpy mattress, gaining any sort of clarity currently seemed beyond the reach of his addled brain.

"Red Lake… Hiawatha Inn… room twenty, and it's nearly one a.m.," a groggy voice called out from somewhere in the darkness.

"Sammy?" Dean asked, his throat dry and raspy. Struggling upward to scan the room, he tried to locate his brother, but even with the glow from the television casting brief flashes of light across the space, he couldn't spot Sam.

"Over here," the younger man called out.

Dean turned his head to follow the sound and instantly regretted it as a wave of dizziness washed over him. He groaned and sagged back against the pillow.

"One a.m. huh? What the hell are you still doing up?" he asked after a moment, lifting one hand to slowly rub at the pounding between his temples.

"Waiting on you."

"Waiting on me for what?"

"To wake up," Sam answered simply.

Dean started to speak, briefly considering some sort of sarcastic reply, but as Sam appeared at his side, a glass of water in his hand, the older man merely smiled and accepted the drink. Raising his head, the dizziness converted to nausea and Dean dropped back once more, swallowing against the rising bile.

Sam responded immediately, one hand grabbing the glass while the other darted behind Dean's neck, supporting and helping him to sit back up. Cool liquid touched his lips and he sipped greedily, relishing the soothing water on his parched throat even though it did nothing to quell the queasiness in his stomach.

"You gonna puke?" Sam asked as though he sensed the threatening upheaval.

It took Dean a minute before he replied, but he pushed away the glass and slowly shook his head.

"Nah," he answered. "I'm good. Would you get the flask out of my duffle?"

"Are you for real?"

"Hair of the dog, Sammy… hair of the dog," Dean insisted. "How long I been out?"

"Nearly six hours," Sam answered, handing over the small silver container. "I was kinda surprised you woke up at all. I wasn't expecting anything coherent out of you till at least noon."

"I'm not a think as you drunk I am," Dean joked back, taking a long pull of the whiskey.

There was a lengthy silence as Sam moved away from Dean's side and blended back into the subtle shadows of the room. A late night infomercial droned on from the television, the gregarious host hocking some sort of miracle juicer only served to torment the elder man's head.

He doubted Sam had been watching the channel, even though he regularly teased his younger sibling about his zeal for healthy eating. Still, his brother had been wide awake, not hazy as though he'd been startled from sleep. That meant Sam had been sitting there, watching him, waiting, and thinking.

_That can't be good…_ Dean thought absently.

Was Sam just biding his time? Waiting to lay into him again and resume the argument from earlier today?

_Yesterday…_ he quickly corrected himself.

Surely Sam would have said something by now. Or maybe his brother really _had_ been worried. Dean hadn't had the opportunity to check himself out in a mirror, but if the painful twinge when he spoke or the sharp daggers that impaled his chest and abdomen when he moved were any indication, then perhaps he'd given Sam good cause to maintain his watchful vigil.

Still, this wasn't the first time Dean had gone for a beer and been caught up in a brawl. In fact, he figured he'd been in enough fights over his twenty-six years, that if life were a hockey game, he'd have a reserved seat in the penalty box. Besides, any fight you could walk away from - or stagger in this case - had to be considered "a win."

So then, if this had been one of the milder "altercations" in Dean Winchester's _Roadhouse _repertoire, why did Sam seem so concerned?

"You okay?" Dean asked tentatively.

Had something bad happened to his brother while he'd been drowning his emotions in a river of alcohol? Had he slipped up, so consumed by his own need to escape his brother's condemnation that he'd left Sam unprotected and vulnerable? Guilt washed over him, settling like a large rock in the pit of his stomach and adding to the nausea already churning within his gut.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam replied. "I was just…"

His brother's voice trailed off, fading into the darkness just as Sam had a moment before. The juicer-guy rambled on filling the suffocating quiet, extolling the benefits of a liquid diet as he jammed whole fruits and vegetables into the intimidating looking device.

"Just what?" Dean pressed, looking away from the television screen as a disgusting-looking green muck poured from the spout of the juicer.

When Sam didn't immediately answer, the injured hunter trapped his lower lip between his teeth and forced himself up to the side of the bed. The movement was excruciating, muscles and soft tissue screaming their protest at the additional abuse. He ignored his body's complaint, determined to check Sam, worried that his brother was hiding some life-threatening injury as a result of his selfish actions.

Dean didn't have to wait, his grunt of pain brought Sam back to his side, his brother's face dropping in front of his own as large, strong hands gripped his shoulders and steadied him.

"Sam…"

"Dean…"

They spoke all at once, worry hinted in their voices. It was both sincere and comical at the same time; the awkwardness of the situation initiating a nervous twitch in Dean's jaw.

"You okay?"

"Take it easy."

The brothers spoke again simultaneously and while the questions weren't carbon copies, the underlying sentiment was the same nonetheless. It was all too much a _Lifetime Movie_ moment for him and Dean chuckled.

"God, where's the camera?" he joked.

In the dim light he could see Sam's eyes narrow with confusion.

"Sorry," Dean stammered. "That last bit was just… oh never mind."

"Was what?" Sam demanded, his previous concern abruptly giving way to irritation.

_Crap!_ Dean thought as the tone of his brother's voice changed and Sam's grip on his arms dropped away. He hadn't meant to piss off the younger man, he was only laughing at the uncomfortable moment between them. Yet once more, he'd managed to say the wrong thing, or in the wrong manner, resulting in pushing Sam away again.

"Sam, look…" he began.

"No. It's alright, Dean. Don't bother. I mean, after all, why the hell should I expect you to give a good goddamn about the fact that I've been sitting here worried about you all night? It's all just a joke, right? You go out, get drunk, get your ass beat, but hey… no worries 'cause Sam will be there to pick up the pieces like always."

"Sam, that's not what…"

"Hey, no problem, Dean. It's not your fault, right? I mean, you didn't ask me to take care of your ass, to clean and bandage up all the damage. What the hell was I thinking? You're fine! You're always fine," Sam ranted on as he angrily yanked down the covers to the second bed and flopped down on top, his back to Dean.

"I didn't say that…"

Leveraging himself to a standing position, Dean swayed as the room spun around him like a sick carnival ride. He reached out to grab for something to steady himself, his brain alerting him a second too late that thin air lacked any supportive properties. Dropping to his knees, he threw out his left arm to snag the edge of his bed to stop his fall, forgetting that the extremity had fended off the chair Aaron had tried to smash over his head. Dean couldn't stifle the loud grunt of pain as muscle and bone tried to bear the weight of his battered body.

"Dammit!" he cursed, landing on the hard floor with a jarring impact.

"Dean!" Sam cried out his name, vaulting from his bed and ending up at Dean's side.

The older man could feel his brother's hands on his upper arms even though he crimped his eyes tightly closed to combat the hammer that was beating out a bad rendition of John Bonham's _Moby Dick_ inside his head.

"Head's… killing… me," Dean grunted out from between clenched teeth.

"Uh… three big guys, you, bar… any of that ring a bell," Sam teased.

"I'm not concussed," the older man insisted. "B'sides, they barely laid a hand on me."

"Remember that when you take a look in the mirror."

"I'll still be better looking than you…"

"Now I know you have brain damage…"

"Yer' jus' jealous…" Dean slurred as he tried to rise back to his feet.

"Brain damaged and delusional…" Sam added, lending his own strength to Dean's wavering frame.

Standing on his feet was no improvement over kneeling on the old carpet for the injured hunter as the drum solo reached a crescendo between his temples.

"Head's really bad," he whined, cringing inwardly at the weakness contained in the statement and wishing he'd not said it aloud.

If he were honest, a lot more than his head was hurting, but at the moment, Dean could only focus on the pounding inside his skull. The light flashing from the television erupted behind crimped lids like fireworks on the Fourth of July, movement only served to make his brain feel like so much Jello, and even the soft rush of air as he breathed seemed to boom within his ears.

Yet, more painful than all of those was Sam's intense gaze. Even behind closed eyes, Dean could feel his brother staring at him. He supposed he should have been used to it by now; lately it seemed that Sam spent a lot of time just "watching" him, waiting for him to break.

_I'm not gonna do that, Sammy. Somehow, I'm gonna deal with this. I have to… for Dad… for you._

"I'm okay…" he said then, summoning up every reserve of strength he could muster to ease himself down slowly to the mattress. It was a bad act and one Dean knew his brother would see straight through. Living in such close quarters all your life with someone generally didn't lend to having many secrets or faking them out.

"You're so full of crap," Sam grumbled as he gently lifted Dean's legs and helped swing them onto the bed. "I know it's late, but why don't you try eating something. You might not have a concussion, but I'm betting half the problem is too much whiskey and not enough food."

"Nah… I'm alright. Just give me some ibuprofen and I'll be fine in the morning," Dean maintained.

"Here we go again," his brother huffed.

_Now what did I say? _

"Sam… please... can we not fight again tonight? I swear I'm okay and I'm sorry if I was a jerk and I really appreciate you dragging my sorry ass back here and watching over me and I know I'm a bastard, but really… I just need to sleep it off."

The rush of words left him breathless and wishing his head would just explode and get it over with. As much as Dean wanted blissful unconsciousness to return, he couldn't rest knowing that Sam was still angry with him. He had enough on his conscience; he didn't need his brother being upset over something stupid. God knew Sam would be furious if he had any inkling of the secret Dean was harboring.

"Yeah… yeah okay, Dean," Sam acquiesced and for a moment the older sibling allowed himself a sigh of relief.

With his eyes still closed, Dean could hear Sam rummaging through a duffle. _Looking for the ibuprofen… _he assumed. The loud applause of the audience signaled the end of the infomercial and Dean was blissfully happy when the station began advertising a collection of Motown hits. While not his preference for music, he respected the near-magical power of Marvin Gaye or Luther Vandross when it came to swaying the opposite sex into… well… sex. In any event, the soft sounds and deep tones beat the hell out of listening to someone selling the Ronco Vegematic or the latest set of Ginsu knives and as the music began to play, he felt himself relaxing slightly.

"Here," Sam offered, returning to the side of the bed.

Dean opened his eyes, squinting as Sam turned on the bedside light. He glanced first at the small tablets held out in his brother's palm, tossing them into his mouth and swallowing them before Sam had the chance to hand him the glass of water. The action garnered a soft huff of dismay from Sam and Dean looked back up, finally seeing his brother's face in the dim lighting.

Sam looked exhausted, his eyes lacking their normal brightness, his brow furrowed with lines of worry. Dark brown locks that normally obscured a good portion of his brother's face were pushed back from his forehead; a result of Sam running his hands through the thick mop as he sat in frustrated silence waiting for Dean to wake up.

The younger man's appearance was haunting, the stress so apparent that it initiated a whole new level of guilt in Dean. Maybe he wasn't being totally fair to Sam? Maybe the promise he made to his dad was less important than Sam's right to know what John had told him. Maybe, just maybe, it made more sense for them to tackle this bizarre prophecy together rather than him keeping it bottled up inside?

_Save him… or kill him…_

_What the hell did that really mean?_

"You okay?" his brother's voice broke through Dean's quiet trance.

He blinked several times and forced a pinched smile onto his face. "Yeah, I'll be alright. Sam, I'm gonna crash for a few more hours, but in the morning, let's dig into this hunt, okay?"

He waited for some sort of contemptuous reply, knowing he deserved whatever tone his brother offered. So he was relatively surprised, not to mention relieved, when Sam merely smiled and nodded.

Accepting Sam's unspoken answer as a makeshift truce, Dean gingerly rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes, welcoming the soothing darkness. He sighed deeply, grateful when he heard Sam click off the television and allow silence to envelop the room.

The soft squeak of the mattress compressing under his brother's weight signaled that Sam was turning in from his self-imposed vigil. Dean listened as his sibling's respirations deepened with sleep, wishing that blissful unconsciousness would reclaim him as well.

Left alone with nothing more than the pounding in his head and the ghostly voice of his father's last words, Dean reached out in the darkness until his fingertips brushed the cool metal of the silver flask left behind on the nightstand. Quietly uncapping it, he swallowed a mouthful, uncaring about the potential interaction between the alcohol and the medication. Replacing it, he pulled the pillow tightly against his ears, trying in vain to shut out the clamor.

But just like it had been every night since his father's passing, sleep stubbornly refused to claim him.

_Save him or kill him… save him or kill him…SAVEHIMORKILLHIM_…

The words echoed inside Dean's head like the last heart-pounding dregs of a nightmare. _The problem was_, Dean admitted ruefully, _there was no waking up from this one_.

**dwWsw**

Smoke wafted up from the small ring of stones set in the center of Biyen's tiny abode. The old man knelt before the dying fire, his voice rising up with the gray wisps. The faint odor of fresh Lobelia flowers mixed amid the acrid smells of other drying plants and curing meat.

Unfazed by the strange blend of smells, the old man carried on with his work. His hands continued to work the worn rock mano against the metate, grinding the contents of the primitive bowl as his chanting droned on. He paused only briefly to add small pinches of Hensbane or Jimson Weed, always careful to keep his contaminated fingers from reaching his mouth or eyes. He wasn't overly concerned about being affected by the dangerous mixture; he'd worked with all these herbs numerous times in his life and had managed a fair tolerance to the potent plants. Add to that, the thick calluses that covered his fingertips and the danger of falling subject to the strong hallucinogenic and paralytic properties of his concoction were slim.

It took several hours, but Biyen acknowledged the howling of a nearby coyote as a good omen as he finished crushing all the dried plants into a very fine powder. He finished by raising the bowl to the four winds, asking for the Creator's blessing on his undertakings.

Cleaning up, he placed the powder in a small leather satchel and put away the ingredients in the secret trunk underneath the small cot in the corner of the one-room cabin. He wasn't really worried about anyone finding the plants; after all, he was widely regarded as the tribal "crackpot" and generally avoided. Still, it was smart to be careful, lest anyone inadvertently interfere with his mission.

The lone coyote bayed once more as Biyen stiffly limped outside to relieve himself. The moon was slowly sinking in the star-filled night sky and a cool wind softly tousled the old man's long gray hair.

He raised his head to peer at the clouds encroaching from the west, closing his eyes and sniffing the air like a predator. A myriad of autumn scents flittered on the night breeze, yet he could easily detect the one that stood out of place amid the usual odors of the nearby flora and fauna.

There was no mistaking the light hint of death that hung on the air, the sickening-sweet stench of old blood and decaying flesh. To the casual observer, the scent would have been lost amid the heavy smell of body odor pouring off the old man.

Yet, Biyen knew different. He knew the creature was out there, just beyond the edge of the clearing, carefully hidden amidst the dark security of the nearby forest.

It was waiting.

Waiting on Biyen to provide its next mark.

Waiting to feed.

**dwWsw**

Eight-thirty in the morning arrived far too soon this particular day for Sam. Under normal circumstances, he was an early riser, used to being up by five even though his first class wasn't till eight. While many of his classmates chose to stay out late and wake up scant minutes before the professor strolled into the lecture hall, Sam had always prided himself on being up, alert and prepared.

His last year at Stanford found him having increasing difficulty keeping to his early morning routine. It was simply too inviting to stay in bed curled up next to Jess, their bodies spooned together like perfectly fitting pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. Their nights together were never long enough and the daytime seemed to pass in agonizing slowness as he waited to get back to the vivacious blonde.

If he closed his eyes, he could still smell the scent of her shampoo when his nose was nestled into the nape of her neck. He could still feel the soft touch of her hands wrapped tightly around his biceps and the gentle caress of her legs when she rubbed them up and down his beneath the sheets.

Still, not all of their mornings were spent entangled in each other's embrace, hitting the snooze and wishing it was Saturday. Just as often as not, Sam would be awoken by playful nips on his chest, warm breath in his ear and the sensation of cool fingertips tracing lightly on the inside of his thighs. Waking up to Jess on top of him was one of many good memories Sam had of Stanford.

Sighing, the young hunter rubbed his eyes and chased away the bittersweet thoughts. Jess was gone, Stanford was long behind him, and the bright beam of sunshine coursing through the window into the motel room was far too cheery and promising for his current mood.

Turning away from the warm rays, he glanced back toward the two beds; his recently vacated one and the other which contained his still sleeping - or unconscious - brother. No, Sam's irritation with the burgeoning new day had more to do with the sleeplessness of the night before than with melancholy memories or even the early hour.

Even after he'd settled Dean back down after their middle of the night "talk", Sam had remained awake, listening for any sign of distress from his brother. It wasn't as though this had been the first time Dean had come back to a motel room, bloodied and bruised from some barroom brawl. It wasn't even that he'd taken more of a beating than normal. Sam had been worried for a different reason last night.

There was no mistaking what his brother was doing, had been doing for several weeks now. Dean was running, hiding behind all his sarcasm, tucked away in the recesses of his own fortified stubbornness, picking fights in order to inflict pain so he could justify all the hurt and anger he was feeling inside.

Sam wasn't stupid. He knew his brother well enough even after being separated for several years. Yet, despite this knowledge, he lacked the ability to help. He'd thought things were going to improve after Montana, he'd hoped that Dean's confession outside Lenore's house had been the end of it. He should have known better.

Nobody did silent suffering or internalization of emotions like Dean. He could almost admire his older sibling for that trait if it wasn't so damned frustrating.

There was more bothering Dean than just their father's death. Sam didn't know what it was, but deep down, he just knew.

"Agghhhhhh… what time is it?" Dean groaned hoarsely. "And why are you staring at me?"

"Huh? Oh… I wasn't staring… and it's almost eight," Sam replied, nervously turning his attention away and realizing he _had_ been absently watching his brother.

"Eight huh? You just wake up too?"

"Yeah."

"Not like you. You okay?"

"Yeah."

"Another nightmare?"

"No, just didn't get much sleep," Sam answered, immediately wishing he'd chosen some other excuse when he saw the regret wash over Dean's bruised face.

"I'm sorry," the older man offered, throwing back the covers and groaning as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Sam hurried to Dean's side, hands reaching to assist without asking. He was relieved when his brother didn't brush him off, hoping that Dean was accepting the help as a gesture meant to ease their frazzled relationship, rather than out of physical need.

On his feet, Dean nodded his thanks and staggered toward the bathroom. It wasn't until Sam saw the door shut that he realized he'd missed the opportunity to hit the head first. His bladder screamed its irritation with him as he made his way over to the table and dropped down into the accompanying chair.

Powering up his laptop, he pulled up the webpage of the local newspaper he'd found the evening before. He was scrolling down through the pages when Dean reemerged, still moving slowly and favoring his left side.

"Anything broken?" Sam asked glancing up.

"Nah, just bruised. I'll be alright just as soon as I take a hot shower and move around some more," Dean answered confidently, ambling closer to peer at the screen.

"I'll make some coffee. That ought to help," Sam offered, standing up and pulling down the lid.

"What ya' looking at? Porn? At this time of the morning?" the older man teased.

Sam rolled his eyes, but didn't take the bait. "No! I found several news articles online last night covering the deaths around here. I also managed to hack into the Sheriff's Department, surprisingly basic security there. There's a report about the deputy that was killed."

"And?"

"He seems to be the only one that put up a fight. When they found his body, he still had his weapon, but it was empty and his spare clips were gone."

"Any sign he hit anything?" Dean asked, gradually settling into the seat Sam had vacated and reopening the laptop.

"Not in the report. They found his body just off the side of the road, but he wasn't killed there. There was a blood trail that went back several hundred yards into the woods."

"Figure the cop carries at least two clips on him, a third in the gun and you mean to tell me he didn't hit anything?" Dean asked.

"If he did, there wasn't any sign. Just him torn to shreds and his liver missing," Sam answered. "The report says they back-tracked his trail through the fields and into the forest. They found lots of blood, but it was all his, no sign of whoever or whatever took him down."

"Lousy shot…"

"Yeah, right, Dean. If whatever did this to him was human, don't you think he might have gotten one or two rounds into his attacker?"

"Local law, what do you figure? Some of these guys are just waiting on retirement. Worse thing they come across is roadkill or some drunk. Maybe the guy had gone soft?"

"Dude, read the report. He was thirty-seven and twice decorated back in Minneapolis. I don't think he was ready for the gold watch," Sam suggested.

"Okay, so what was super cop doing out here in no-man's land?"

"Who knows, maybe he was tired of the rat race. The point is, McNally was a Polk County deputy. They found him north of here in Pennington County, nearly sixty miles from where he was supposed to be. And here's the better part. They found traces of his blood as far away as the next county to the east," the younger hunter explained.

"Meaning what?" Dean asked looking up from the laptop.

"Meaning, whatever happened to him, it seems like it was out in the forest somewhere and he just managed to crawl back to civilization. Same thing for Charles Patterson."

"Who?"

"The ex-con from St. Cloud. They found his body off the side of the road just northeast of here. Same condition as the others, but there was a blood trail that led back into the woods."

Sam watched as Dean chewed on the information. He had to give his brother credit, despite the bruises, stiffness and post-fight pain, Dean was quickly back in hunt-mode, readily absorbing the relevant intel and knowing him, already formulating some sort of plan.

"So," the older man said after a minute. "The real link here is like you said, all these guys have gotten ganked somewhere out in the boonies around here?"

"Seems that way," Sam agreed. "But again, the victims were all from different walks of life and different towns. How the hell did they end up slaughtered out in the forest?"

"And by what?" Dean added.

"Exactly!"

"You got a plan?"

Sam sighed as he poured two cups of coffee from the small pot and moved across the room, handing Dean one before taking a slow sip from the other.

"Well, we know it centers around here," Sam began, "so I was thinking about talking with some of the locals. People who have lived here for a while are bound to have heard things that didn't make the reports."

Dean snickered, "Seems like you were already making contact with the _locals_ last night," he suggested with a mischievous wiggle of his eyebrows. "What's up with the chick?"

"Shut up, Dean!"

His brother chuckled again. "She was hot."

"Was she? I hadn't really noticed," Sam replied, feigning indifference but unable to hide the slight blush on his cheeks.

"Well, I guess if you aren't interested, I can go talk to her…"

"No!" Sam shouted a bit too abruptly, realizing too late that he'd fallen right into his brother's trap.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," Dean replied smugly as he took another draw of the steaming coffee.

"Look, how about we go get something to eat. You have to be hungry. We can talk to Nara together and then decide who to speak to next. Working in the store, she probably has contact with almost everyone around here," Sam suggested.

"Nara, huh? You on a first name basis already? Fast moving there, Sammy."

Sam groaned, rolled his eyes and spun away from the leering gaze of his brother. Inwardly, he smiled, pleased that they'd started the morning with no mention of the previous day's argument. He'd known Dean would come around, not hanging on to any of the anger or bitterness they'd spewed at each other; it just wasn't in Dean's nature. And while it wasn't the heart-to-heart talk Sam wanted, _needed_, from his brother, it was better than the alternative.

Sam was content to let Dean stuff all his emotions into that bottomless pit inside him for now and just work the case. But sooner or later, he was going to get his obstinate sibling to talk. He'd still been close enough to hear the smashing glass and screeching metal back in Bobby's salvage yard. He'd seen the result of Dean's pain and anger in the gaping hole in the trunk of the Impala. He knew that display had only been the smoldering ash cloud of the larger volcano lying deeper down. It was going to explode. Dean was going to crash and burn. Sam just prayed that when it happened, they'd be able to put all the pieces back together.

For now though, they were on a hunt and seemingly working together. It was enough!

"I'm getting a shower," Sam mumbled as he headed toward the bathroom.

"Cold one I bet?" Dean taunted behind him. "Not that you'd be thinking about Nara, of course!"

"Ass!" Sam threw back over his shoulder as he closed the door.

Dean's laughter from the other room carried beyond the thin wood frame. It was a welcome sound to Sam's ears.

**dwWsw**

Dean emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam and with a towel hugging his waist. Water beaded on his chest, tiny droplets of liquid that stood in stark contrast to the livid bruises brought out by the hot shower.

Sam couldn't help but stare at the damage left behind from the Kobine brother's fists. He supposed that the longer, narrower mark that adorned Dean's upper arm was the result of a stick, or more likely a barstool that his brother had blocked from smashing into his head.

Yet, even more disturbing than the fresh injuries were the myriad of scars that crisscrossed Dean's flesh. There was the one on his left collarbone, round and puckered, a leftover from their last trip to Minnesota. Then there were the smaller ones, cuts and lacerations barely healed from the collision with the semi. And in between, there were all sorts of fading lines, some jagged, some smooth, but all the result of the lifestyle Dean had been condemned to.

One of these days, Sam knew, there'd be a scar that wouldn't heal, one that would take his brother down forever. He'd come close enough to that just weeks ago, the last remnant barely faded from his forehead.

"Dude, I know I'm irresistible, but you're making me uncomfortable with the staring," Dean snarked.

Sam roused from his observation, quickly looking away, afraid that his face would betray the underlying fear he had for his brother.

"I wasn't staring," he swiftly replied, bending over to finish tying his shoes.

"Face it, you're just envious of my awesome body and devastating good looks," Dean continued, using the spare towel in his hand to ruffle dry the short crop of sandy hair.

"Oh yeah, definitely," Sam grumbled. "Did you look in the mirror while you were in the bathroom? That awesome body of yours looks like it was trampled under a herd of cattle."

"Scars dude, how many times have I got to remind you that chicks dig the scars?"

"Scars maybe, but I don't think the _chicks_ go for the Smurf look. You've got more blue skin than white," the younger sibling threw back.

Dean's eyes scanned his upper torso before shrugging and continuing to dry. "Medals of honor, Sammy. Battlefield tested. Besides, I'm counting on the fact that the other three look and feel worse than I do."

"Yeah, that's some consolation. Look, how 'bout we keep you out of any more barroom brawls and let you take out all your issues on whatever's out there killing people," Sam suggested.

He knew he was in trouble when Dean's eyes narrowed and his face darkened.

"What's that supposed to mean? I don't have issues…" the elder sibling growled.

Sam held his breath. He hadn't meant to antagonize Dean once again, especially since the morning had been going so well.

"I didn't mean anything by it, Dean. It was just an expression," he fumbled.

Dean glared at him under pinched brows and for a moment, Sam was worried that his brother was going to throw a punch. But the anger quickly washed from the older man's face, the creases in his forehead smoothing as his eyes softened and the glare was replaced with a mild smirk as he turned away.

"You're the one with issues… I don't have issues… only issue I have is with you… Tell me I have issues… you're gonna see what issues I have…" Dean muttered as he resumed dressing.

Sam sighed, relieved that Dean anger hadn't chosen to reignite. He stood and waited by the door as his brother donned jeans, t-shirt and a Henley. He tucked the layers into the denim, before pulling on his boots and hastily tying them.

"I'm coming… I'm coming…" Dean grumbled as he tugged on his dark blue jacket.

Sam opened the door, standing off to the side as his brother stalked through and out into the slowly warming sunshine. He didn't even mind when Dean's fist lashed out and slugged his upper arm. It was a gesture his brother hadn't carried out in some time, one Sam missed in a bizarre sort of way.

_Just like I miss the old Dean…_ he thought absently, pulling the door closed behind them.

**dwWsw**

They ate quickly and quietly in the tiny diner located next to the motel. The food, while hot, was bland, and Dean was certain the eggs were nothing more than yellow-tinted rubber. Still, the coffee was strong and his stomach seemed content that it was finally getting something other than Tennessee's best. He felt slightly more human as he rose from the table and tossed a twenty in the direction of the tired-looking old woman that sat hunched over near the register. She barely acknowledged him, her dark eyes glancing up only briefly as she snagged the bill.

"Keep the change," he muttered, offering her a broad smile that was met with narrow-eyed suspicion as Dean headed toward the door.

Outside, Sam was toeing at some loose gravel on the sidewalk, his hands jammed down into his pockets that signaled nervousness on his part. Dean chuckled as he came up behind his sibling and slapped his back.

"We're just going to talk to her. Not like it's the prom," he teased.

Sam glowered at him and motioned ahead, taking off at a ground eating pace.

The short walk to the little store should have only taken a couple of minutes, it wasn't that far. But each step Dean took reminded him of the adage "no good fight goes unscathed."Or maybe it was "no good deed goes unpunished"… either way, he was living it and the end result was an unhappy blend of hangover, greasy food and a body that felt as though it had been run over by Cyrus Dorian's big black truck.

"You gonna make it?" Sam asked as Dean loosed another muffled grunt.

The older hunter looked up, forcing his eyes from staring at the top of his boots as they rose and fell in a painful cadence, each step striking the gravel surface of the road and reverberating up his spine and into his chest. Breathing through pursed lips, he managed a glare in his brother's direction and tried to stand a little straighter.

"You could have stayed back at the motel," Sam continued. "Got more rest."

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean replied through gritted teeth. "Besides, no way am I letting you talk to grocery girl by yourself," he added with a sly grin.

Sam's groan was worth the added effort to pretend he felt better than he did, in fact, irritating his brother was often the fastest way to feel healthier.

They passed the Wolf's Den without a word and Dean was glad that there was no sign of the Kobine brothers. He'd half dreaded that the threesome might come looking for a little payback. One thing he'd learned early on, picking a fight was one thing and winning, while ultimately the goal, was pointless if you got your ass handed to you a couple of days later in a back alley somewhere.

"At least there's no alley nearby," he mused aloud. _Have to be careful while we're around here…_

"Huh?" Sam asked.

"Nothing," Dean stammered and picked up his gait.

There was a young woman and a child exiting the small store as the brother's approached. Sam rushed ahead to hold open the door, but the mother eyed him cautiously and drew the toddler closer to her as they veered away from the hunters.

Dean drew near, watching the scene quickly unfold. He was used to the odd looks and glances when they arrived in a new town, but rarely had he experienced such overt suspicion from the local. He didn't know much about Native American history, most of his education on the matter coming from old John Wayne flicks or Bonanza, but he knew enough to understand that the distrust of whites wasn't uncommon. In fact, he clearly remembered the hard eyed stares and clipped responses he'd received when he and Sam had been investigating the bones they'd found out at Oasis Plains.

Getting these people to talk might be harder than they thought and he absently wondered if the locals might be hiding something behind the guise of distrust. He shrugged it off for now and followed Sam into the shop.

"Well, if it isn't Moe and Larry," a soft voice called out. "Hang on a second, let me roll out the bubble wrap before you get any closer to the breakables."

Sam chuckled and ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead but quickly letting it drop back in place to cover his eyes. His uneasiness told Dean everything he needed to know about the young woman standing behind the counter.

"I really am sorry about last night," his brother apologized sheepishly.

The brunette giggled, the higher-pitched laughter making her sound like a teenager. But Dean knew better. He wasted no time in noting the soft curves of her waist, the smooth features of her face and the luxurious looking mane of dark hair that cascaded freely down her back.

She was exotically beautiful and he quickly understood his brother's current behavior.

"I'm Dean," he offered, extending his hand across the counter.

"Yeah, I remember you, Dalton. Gotta say, didn't think I'd be seeing you around here today. Course, I wouldn't have figured anyone dumb enough to tangle with the Kobine brothers could even crawl out of bed for at least a week," Nara answered, glancing down at his proffered hand but making no move to shake it.

"I heal fast," Dean replied, pulling back his hand when she continued to ignore it.

She looked him over and snorted. "Have you looked in the mirror this morning?"

"I want to thank you again for last night," Sam suddenly intervened.

Dean watched with dismay as the woman's attention shifted to his brother, the sneer she'd been displaying for him disappearing as she smiled at Sam.

"No problem, Sam. I didn't do anything and I'm glad to see that you managed to get your brother back in something resembling one piece. I take it you've had practice?"

Sam chuckled once more and nodded, earning a dark glare from Dean.

A strange silence settled inside the small store as Sam and Nara exchanged long glances. Dean watched them dance around the uncomfortable quiet, neither willing nor able to find the next words to say. It was painfully embarrassing for him to observe and after a moment he cleared his throat to end the awkward scene.

Dean smiled as the two of them abruptly broke their gaze. Nara quickly tried to busy herself with something on the counter while Sam scratched the back of his head and shuffled his feet against the rough wood floor.

"So, uh, Nara," Dean began, his demeanor taking on a more business like tone. "I don't know how much my brother told you about why we're here, but I'm wondering if we could ask you a few questions?"

"Your brother didn't tell me much at all. He was too busy busting up my store," the young woman replied, casting a flirting smile in Sam's direction.

Dean rolled his eyes while she wasn't looking but continued.

"Well, we were hired by the family of Charles Patterson to investigate his death. It seems the local authorities haven't gotten far with it and they'd like more answers," he lied.

She eyed him suspiciously, her dark irises narrowing as she spoke. "Wasn't he the one they found dead over near County 52 a week or so ago?"

Dean nodded.

"He was an ex-con they said, just released from the prison down in St. Cloud? Maybe he just got some sort of comeuppance?" Nara added.

"Sure, Chuck got into some problems with the law, but that doesn't justify what happened to him," Dean insisted.

"And what do _you_ think happened to him?" she asked pointedly, looking at Sam.

"We read the report, Charles was found dead, his body brutalized and his liver missing," Sam answered matter-of-factly.

"That doesn't answer my question. What does the family think happened to him that warrants sending you guys up here to check it out? Or do you just assume our little boondocks law around here can't manage it?" Nara sarcastically snapped.

"Well, they've done a bang up job so far. Let's face it honey, this isn't the first dead body to turn up in these parts missing parts," Dean threw back.

"Look, Nara," Sam intervened. "We're just trying to help the family put some closure to this. They just want to know what happened to their son. You have to admit, it's kinda suspicious, all the deaths around here over the past couple of years and all the victims have had their livers missing."

The woman's edgy tone softened slightly, an almost nervous look washing over her face that Dean didn't miss.

"What do you want to know? I mean, what could _I _possibly know that would help?" she asked.

"Anything. Local rumors, customers talking, behind the scenes stuff that outsiders like us wouldn't find out?" Sam answered.

She shrugged. "We keep to ourselves mostly, and none of the victims were from the reservation or were Ojibwe that I know of. I've heard a little about the murders but honestly, most of it is second hand. I've only lived here for a short time."

"And the folks that come in the store, what do they say? Are they worried about the deaths? Do they have any ideas about what did it?" Dean queried.

"_What_ did it?" Nara exclaimed. "What do you think killed these people? It's not like we have mountain lions or grizzlies around here. Besides, how does a big animal manage to take down a full-grown man with a gun?"

"You're talking about Deputy McNally?" Sam clarified.

Nara shifted uncomfortably, twisting her hair into small rings around her fingers. "If you've been checking into all the deaths then you must have heard about him? Rumor has it he fired his gun till it was empty, but there was no sign that he hit anything."

"Yeah, we heard about that," Dean confirmed. "So you think there's some sort of serial killer around here. Someone that get's his rocks off by cutting out the livers of his victims?"

"What else could it be? Unless you're thinking we have a werewolf roaming northern Minneosta or something?" Nara joked.

Dean saw Sam's eyebrows rise in surprise, but he laughed and shook his head. "No such things as werewolves," he quickly denied.

"Nara, do you think there's someone around here we can talk to, that would talk to us and maybe knows anything more?" Sam asked a moment later.

The brunette sighed thoughtfully, her right hand toying with the ends of her hair. "Well, I'd tell you to talk to Uncle Biyen, he knows about nearly everything that goes on around here. But, let's face it, he's not gonna talk to you. I s'pose I could call out to the res, I think John Tall Bear would talk to you, and he is the tribal president. He's fairly progressive, manages the casino, so he might help you… if he knows anything."

"We'd really appreciate it, Nara," Sam said, smiling generously.

"Well, give me a second and I'll call John," she stated, moving further behind the counter and picking up the receiver to the phone hanging on the wall.

Sam turned and began to walk towards the door, motioning Dean to follow him. When they were out of Nara's earshot the younger hunter spoke.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

Dean glanced back at the lithe brunette and nodded thoughtfully. "I think she's hot. Way out of your league. I might have to ask her out before we leave town."

"Dean, I hate to break it to you, but I don't think she was really impressed with your little show out there last night. Twenty says she wouldn't yell fire if you were running naked with flames shooting out of your ass," Sam snarked in reply.

"Oh and you're gonna get to first base with her? I don't think so."

"Look, can we forget about Nara for a minute and focus on the job? I definitely get the feeling that she knows more than she's saying. Did you see the look on her face when I brought up all the other deaths?"

"Yeah," Dean answered quietly. "I caught that. She got kinda nervous looking."

"So?"

"So maybe we need to push her more. Why don't you go talk to this 'big bear' guy and I'll see what else we can get out of Pocahontas," Dean suggested.

"Oh yeah, that's gonna win her over. No way, dude. You go talk to him and I'll talk to Nara. I think she'll be more responsive to me." Sam insisted.

Dean was about to argue when the soft jingle of the bell hanging above the entrance signaled a new arrival. The brothers turned toward the noise, spotting the old man as he slowly made his way past them toward the counter.

"That's Biyen, Nara's uncle," Sam whispered as the gray-haired Indian passed.

The older hunter followed the nod of his brother's head, watching the diminutive man approach the young woman and begin to speak in low tones. Dean didn't skip a beat, striding confidently toward Nara and Biyen, he called out to the old man and extended his hand.

"Mr. Biyen," he began." Can I ask you a couple of questions?"

The man turned slowly, but deliberately, his face a hardened mask. In that instant, Dean could see where Nara had gained her sharp gaze. In the next instant, he figured out where she'd inherited her acerbic tone as well.

"I do not answer questions for those that think they already know the answers," Biyen snapped.

Dean blinked rapidly, unsure just what the hell the man meant by his comment. Undaunted, he continued.

"Your niece says you know about everything that goes on around here. My brother and I are checking into a death that happened not far from Red Lake a couple of weeks ago. Do you know anything about that?"

Biyen continued to glower at the young hunter, his dark eyes narrowed as though if he stared hard enough, he could bore right through Dean. But Dean was used to dealing with people who thought "looking" intimidating made them intimidating. After all, he'd perfected that same technique.

"You've lived here a long time, I assume," he pressed on. "So no doubt you've heard about all the deaths around this area over the past two years."

"I know many things," Biyen replied. "I know that you are a braggart who looks to settle matters with his fists instead of his brain. I know that you must be good at this since I saw Jimmy Kobine this morning and he was walking like an old woman."

Dean shrugged, his eyes twinkling with pride as he grinned broadly. "What can I say? I didn't start that fight, but I sure as hell ended it."

"And I know that men like you bring nothing but trouble to my people," Biyen added.

"Seems like the people in these parts already have some trouble among them," Dean fired back.

"Look, sir…" Sam interjected, stepping in front of his brother and gently pushing Dean back a step. "We honestly just want to help. We're only trying to find out what happened here so we can tell the victim's family. Wouldn't you want to have answers if your loved one was killed?"

Biyen didn't yield, ignoring Sam's plea as he peered around the taller man's shoulder to glare at Dean.

"Uncle, they mean no harm. Can't you just tell them whatever you know?" Nara implored him.

"_Nidooshimekwem_!"

"No, uncle. You can help them," the young woman insisted, reaching out to grasp his forearm.

He pulled brusquely away from her touch. "Mind your place, woman!"

"Sir, please…" Sam called out, but Biyen silenced him with a wave of his hand.

Dean pushed forward, not willing to remain a spectator a moment longer. "Hey, I get it. All white men are evil. We stole your land. We slaughtered your people. And now this is your way to stick it to the lot of us. But whatever is out there killing people, sooner or later it's gonna come after some of your friends. And when it does, folks like me and my brother - that don't give a good goddamn what color your skin is - we aren't going to be around here to help you figure it out."

He stared at the old man, unflinching as Biyen returned the intense gaze. For a moment, neither man budged, neither of them even blinked, and a tension-filled silence settled heavily in the store.

"Sir… please … my brother and I didn't mean to bother you and we certainly don't intend any disrespect. We're just trying to help," Sam calmly spoke as he once more stepped slightly in front of Dean.

Biyen relented slightly, looking away from the older hunter as he exhaled a long, deep breath.

"You should be careful. You are not welcome here. The answers you seek may not be what you expect," he stated cryptically.

"We only want to know the truth," Sam repeated.

"No one ever wants to know the truth," Biyen snorted. "They only wish to know what is convenient."

"Then tell us the truth," Dean cut in. "I swear to you, we want to help. We're not here to hurt anyone."

Biyen eyed him carefully.

"Uncle, I was going to send them to talk to John Tall Bear, but you know how he is. He won't cooperate with them any more than he did with the Sherriff's Department. Do you want them to hear lies about our people from John? Or would you rather help them?"

"And why is it that you suddenly trust these men that you do not even know? I would think that you of all people would be more wary… considering…"

Dean watched the color blanch from Nara's face and she silenced immediately, withdrawing slightly from the group. Whatever the big secret between the old man and his niece, it was evident that it hurt the young woman to the core.

"You have no reason to trust us," the elder Winchester stated bluntly. "We're sorry to bother you. We'll find out what we need on our own."

Without waiting for a reply, he tugged on Sam's arm and drew his reluctant brother with him toward the front door. Dean could hear the soft whispering of Nara and Biyen behind them, but he didn't acknowledge their voices.

_Call us back… _he silently wished. _Come on Nara! You can do it… don't let us leave…_

His hand grasped the knob on the door, a fractional twist of his wrist and it would open.

"Sam! Dean… wait!"

_Do I know women or do I know women?_

Both brothers spun back around, Dean trying to stifle the confident smirk on his face.

"Uncle Biyen will talk to you, Dean. He will take you to meet John," Nara informed him.

Dean merely nodded in reply. He wasn't really looking forward to a car ride with the belligerent old Indian, much preferring to have stayed behind to talk, _yeah talk_, to the beautiful brunette. But as Sam nearly tripped moving closer to Nara, it was all too apparent that his role had been duly delegated.

He sighed, not bothering to soften the reproachful look he cast at his grinning brother. Motioning the old man toward the door, he waited for Biyen to slowly move ahead before he followed him outside.

_Sam gets the girl while I play chauffeur to old Tonto here… _Dean quietly groused as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Gray clouds had replaced the sun and the first drops of rain plinked him in the eyes as he gazed toward the sky.

"Great! Just freakin' great!" he mumbled toward the heavens. "Can anything else go wrong?"

**dwWsw**

The rain increased, the soft patter becoming rapid drumbeats as it struck the metal roof of the store. Inside, Sam laughed and handed Nara a can of soda as the lights flickered following a brilliant flash of lightning.

The young woman's demeanor had definitely softened since the tense moments during Dean and her uncle's confrontation. Her mood became more relaxed as she offered the young hunter to join her for lunch, quickly snagging a loaf of bread and a package of lunch meat from off the shelves. She completed the meal with a bag of Doritos and two apples.

He wasn't really hungry, having eaten just a short time ago. But the promise of her company, not to mention the appeal of something more edible than what they'd had at the diner, had Sam eagerly agreeing.

"Doritos, huh?" he asked with a grin, watching as she grabbed a handful and put some on each of the two paper plates.

She smiled back, nodding as her hand snaked back into the bag and popped a handful directly into her mouth.

"I go' a'dicted to em ba' in co'ege…" she mumbled as she chewed.

Sam burst into laughter. "Care to repeat that? I don't understand Doritoese."

Nara finished crunching the snacks and giggled. "I said… I got addicted to them when I was in college. I could destroy an entire bag by myself while I was studying. A bag of Doritos and a six pack of Mountain Dew and I was good for an all-nighter."

Sam smiled wistfully, his mind roaming back to Stanford and his own study habits. The first year or so he'd been completely disciplined - Dean would called it OCD - about studying. The lighting had to be just right, the room quiet, and his notes impeccably organized. He didn't answer the phone, he didn't respond to the various offers to "party" by some of the others on his hall. It was all about learning, about excelling at every class he took, every subject just another challenge that he eagerly met.

But then Jessica came along. And while the lively blonde was just as dedicated, her study habits were not nearly as ordered as Sam's. Where he preferred quiet, Jess usually had some sort of music or the T.V. blaring. Where Sam had his notes color-coordinated to the syllabus, Jess's textbooks looked like a kindergartner with a big box of crayons and raging on a sugar high had gotten hold of them.

Yet, Jess never failed an exam. Others may not have seen beyond her knock-out good looks, but hidden underneath was a steel-trap brain that easily grasped nearly any concept or subject. After all, getting into Stanford wasn't for the lower end of the GPA pool.

"Did I lose you?" Nara asked softly.

Sam blinked owlishly then smiled weakly. "I'm sorry, was just remembering my college days."

"Oh? Where did you go?"

"Stanford."

"Stanford? Wow! I'm properly impressed," Nara replied with wide eyes.

"Ah, don't be. I didn't finish."

"What were you studying?"

"Pre-law," he answered, feeling as though the last bite of sandwich had suddenly lodged in his throat.

"A lawyer? Guess we know who got the brains in your family," the young woman joked.

Sam chuckled lightly, his mind somewhat offended on behalf of his absent brother.

"Don't count Dean short. I think he mostly acts that way just to put people off," he explained. "Do you know Dean can read Latin as easily as he can rebuild a big block engine?"

Nara paused, seemingly impressed by Sam's revelation. "Yeah, well, if he keeps getting his head pounded in by the likes of the Kobine brothers he might be lucky to read period when he's fifty. Have you ever seen the brain MRI of a football player or boxer? Repeated concussions have been shown to cause cognitive loss, even long term anger and sleep disorders in former NFL players."

"Okay, now I'm impressed. And just what was your major?" Sam queried.

Nara finished another bite of sandwich before she answered. "I thought I wanted to go into sports medicine."

"Oh really? Why didn't you finish? How did you end up here?"

Nara's head dipped down and Sam flinched, realizing how the last question must have sounded to the young woman.

"Nara, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that," he apologized.

"It's okay," she responded with a wave of her hand. "The answer is simple, I ended up here for the same reason that I got into sports medicine to begin with. His name was Daniel, he was the star hockey player for MSU, the school's golden boy. We met my freshman year."

"What happened?" Sam pressed.

"Let's just say that Daniel body checked as much off the ice as he did on."

Sam went silent, seeing the sudden sadness washing over the brunette like a massive rogue wave. He was shocked and sickened at the same time, part of him disbelieving that someone like Nara could have been subject to any form of abuse while simultaneously wanting to track down this Daniel and give him a taste of his own medicine.

"It's okay, Sam," Nara said with a weak smile. "It's a part of my life that's long over. I'm happy now. Moving back here is one of the best things that ever happened to me. Once I had the courage to get away from Daniel, leaving school was the easy part."

"But you gave up so much. You could have been a doctor," the young hunter exclaimed.

"And you were going to be a lawyer, yet here you are, playing private investigator with your brother. Now tell me there isn't some story behind that?"

Sam shook his head. "No story really. Something happened at school and I had to leave. Besides, I sorta had to help Dean with the family business, especially now."

"Why now? What happened that you'd trade lifestyles of the rich and famous for tagging along with your brother and playing _Simon and Simon_?" Nara asked before tearing off a bite of the apple.

"Our dad was killed recently…" Sam divulged, going quiet as the rawness of his father's death suddenly pained like the emotional wound it was.

He could feel Nara's eyes on him, could hear her soft gulp as the conversation lost any hint of lightheartedness.

"Sam, I'm sorry," she gently offered.

"It's alright," he slowly responded, looking up to meet her eyes. "It's funny ya' know. My dad and I fought like hell the last few years before I left for college. I couldn't wait to get away from him. But now that he's gone…"

"You miss him like hell?"

"Yeah…"

"You said he was killed. What happened?" Nara asked.

"Ah… just part of the job. We were chasing… someone… and before we knew it, the bastard turned it around on us. Came right at us. Dean was hurt… really bad, and well… our dad… I guess you could say he sorta threw himself in front of a bullet to save Dean."

"Sam, that's awful. Did you get the guy that did it?"

"No. We're still looking for i…. err… him," Sam quickly covered. _And when I find that yellow-eyed bastard, I'm sending him down to hell in pieces._

"So in the meantime, you and Dean, you carry on the business? Stuff like this case?"

"Yeah! I mean, it's what our dad would have wanted. He cared about helping people that were stuck in bad situations. Dean does too. I guess it kinda rubbed off on me more than I knew," the young man confessed.

Nara nodded. "Yeah, I sorta know what you mean," she added cryptically before going strangely silent.

Sam could tell there was more to the young woman's story than just an abusive boyfriend, but he was reluctant to press her. He finished his sandwich and emptied the last of the soda before leaning back in the folding chair, sated and feeling drowsiness tug at his mind.

"So, Nara. Is there anything else you can think of that might help us?" he asked, sitting forward and mentally dusting away the cobwebs from his head.

She was reaching for the bag of Doritos when he spoke, his words making her pause.

"I dunno," she answered slowly, brushing loose strands of hair back over her shoulder. "Like I told you earlier, I really haven't been living here all that long. I moved back about ten months ago."

"In that time, there have been three deaths, Patterson, Deputy McNally and a DNR officer over by the shore of the lake," Sam stated.

"Four…"

"Four?"

"There have been four deaths since I've been here. All those you mentioned and one other," Nara told him.

"Who else? When… where?" Sam asked excitedly.

"This past winter, just after Christmas, some college kid from down near Northfield was up here doing research on the tribe. He hung around for a couple of weeks and then left."

"He just left? I thought you said he was another death," Sam asked with confusion.

Nara didn't immediately answer; instead she rose up and began cleaning the remnants of their meal. For a moment, Sam thought she wasn't going to say any more, the conversation abruptly halted. With an audible sigh, she turned back to face him and he could tell by the look on her face that she was more than reluctant to keep speaking.

"Nara, what is it?" he pressed.

She bit her bottom lip, physical signs of her nervousness reappearing as her long fingers began twirling dark hair around and around.

"No one really knows for sure," she continued after a moment. "They never found a body. The police scoured the area; his family even organized a group of college students to come up here and search the woods and around the lake."

"The lake? Why the lake? I thought you said he was doing research out at the reservation?"

"He was. But…"

"But what?"

"They found his backpack out by Red Lake. It was covered in blood."

"So you think he was murdered too?" Sam queried. "Like the others?"

Nara shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe, maybe not. But Sam, I'm not stupid. I live here, I see what's happening. I remember coming here as a little girl with my dad to visit my uncle and my grandparents. Red Lake was like heaven compared to Rochester, it was so peaceful here. Nothing more exciting happened than a fight at the bar. We've never had murders here before and now all of a sudden, we have more deaths than towns twice our size."

"What do you think it is, Nara? I mean… do you think there's someone out there murdering and mutilating these victims? Is there someone around here that could do that?" the young hunter posed.

"I can't think of a soul that would be so cold-blooded as to do that to another human being. I mean, don't get me wrong, there's always talk about some strong muscle up at the casinos taking care of problems in that whole _Goodfellas_ kinda way. But that's a bit of a leap to assume that any of them would do something like that," the dark-haired woman explained.

"But would they go after someone like the deputy? Seems stupid to risk bringing more law snooping around. Besides, everything I read about Gene McNally makes him seem pretty spotless."

"Let's just say talk has it that the boys up there at the casino don't tolerate unpaid gambling debts, no matter who owes them," Nara hinted.

"Okay, I can buy that. But killing them and ripping out their livers… that doesn't exactly sound like broken legs and cement shoes. Why go to all that trouble?" Sam challenged.

"You need to brush up on your Native American history," Nara teased. "Nearly every tribe out there holds the heart and the liver as sacred. While on the hunt, braves would remove the heart or livers of their prey to honor the spirit of the creature. In other tribes, removing the heart or liver of the enemy was to guarantee their spirits couldn't find their way in the afterlife. This could just be a message to others."

"So, if it is someone around here doing this, then they'd have to be familiar with tribal lore? Maybe be a member of the tribe?"

"I know what you're getting at, Sam. And the answer is yes. I've already thought that it could be someone from the reservation, someone I know. But the truth is, I don't know anyone that I think would do this. I can't think of anyone that sick."

"Who runs the casino, Nara?" Sam asked.

"The entire tribe does basically, but all you have to do is check out the some of the new construction to see who's really profiting from selling out our people," Nara snarled.

"And that would be who?"

"Well, John Tall Bear for one. People on the reservation barely have clean running water, but that jackass is living like he's Donald Trump of the Ojibwe."

Sam chuckled at her analogy, but his humor rapidly dissolved as it occurred to him that the same person that might have ties to the recent deaths was the same person his brother was on his way to meet.

His hand darted to his pocket, fingers digging furiously for the cell phone tucked inside. He had Dean's number pulled up on speed-dial as Nara moved around the edge of the counter to stand at his shoulder.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"We just sent Dean to talk to one of our prime suspects," Sam answered, carefully trying to mask the concern from his voice.

"You don't honestly think that John would do something like this. I mean, he's a slimeball, but he's not a killer," Nara insisted.

Sam groaned as he stabbed the send button. "My brother's head isn't exactly in the game here, Nara. Last night was evidence to that. Sending Dean to talk to him might be like…"

"Pouring gasoline on a fire?" Nara interjected.

Sam grimaced as the first sounds of ringing poured through the receiver on his phone. "I was thinking it was more like leaving out a big raw steak for a ravenous pit bull."

"What will your brother do?" Nara asked worriedly.

"Hopefully… he won't bite…"


	5. Fighting For My Pride

_Thanks to everyone that's reviewed or "fav'd" this story. I'm really enjoying writing it- even if I'm slower than molasses. I appreciate your patience and faithfulness.. _

_The pace picks up with this chapter and the following ones… and I'll apologize in advance for the cliffie… but then- you had to know it was coming… right?_

Disclaimer: _Nope- I checked and the Impala is still not parked in my driveway._

**WORTHY **

Chap. 5**Fighting for my pride**

"Hey, Sammy! What's up?" Dean asked after glancing at the caller ID and connecting the incoming call.

"Dean! Are you at the casino yet?" his brother asked, a worried tone to his voice.

"Just pulling in now. Hey, look, let me call you back after I get done talking to this Tall Bear guy," the elder sibling replied.

"Dean, wait!" Sam called out.

Dean slowed the Impala, pulling to a stop in an open parking slot. He watched as Biyen nearly bolted from the car, surprised at the old man's sudden burst of speed and agility.

"Sam, I gotta go. Geronimo here is taking off. I'll call you later," he stated hurriedly, ignoring his brother's interrupted shout as he flipped closed the phone and killed the engine. Pushing open the driver's side door, he didn't bother to lock the Chevy as he took off at a trot to catch the old Indian.

Calling out, Dean tried to get Biyen to stop, but the stubborn man continued across the lot at a ground-eating pace. Nearly to the exit, he reached the obstinate elder, grabbing him by the shoulder to stop his movement. Biyen spun around at the touch, his eyes darkening and his gaze landing hard on the young hunter.

"Hey, what's the big hurry?" Dean asked, ignoring the harsh glare from the older man.

"I have done as I said. I am going home," Biyen replied coldly before pulling free of Dean's grasp.

"Wait! You said you were going to talk to me. I just spent the past forty-five minutes driving out here and hearing nothing more than you breathe," the hunter complained.

"I have nothing to say," Biyen threw over his shoulder.

"Nothing to say!" Dean exclaimed. "I thought you were going to tell me whatever you knew about the deaths around here."

"You do not wish to hear what I have to tell you. What you need to know you are not ready to accept. Besides, there are things more important than your needs and wants."

"Okay, Yoda. How about you cut out all the mystical crap and just give me a straight answer dammit!"

Dean held his hard stance, his eyes narrowed with irritation.

"I have nothing to say to you in this place," Biyen growled, his arm gesturing widely in the direction of the casino.

Dean followed the gesture, eyeing the massive building that housed the gambling hall. For a casino, the place was relatively plain. The outside was styled like a lodge with large timbers framing the exterior structure. A gigantic set of antlers adorned the façade above the main entrance, but below the neon sign that identified the building as Seven Clans.

The casino certainly didn't scream "den of iniquity" and it hardly resembled it's larger and much more neon-clad cousins in Vegas. Still, one glance at the full parking lot and Dean knew that size and looks apparently didn't matter to the myriads of customers inside.

He turned back toward the old man, forcing his attention away from the casino and the sudden itch to go inside and throw a twenty down on the Blackjack table.

_Wouldn't that just piss Sam off? _In his mind, Dean could picture the look on his brother's face if he found out Dean had deviated from the hunt to partake in a little gambling. Part of him was sorely tempted, wanting nothing more than to forget about spirits, creatures, and hunts, if only for a little while.

But he couldn't do that. Not because Sam was so hell-bent on this case, but more that he knew deep down it wouldn't help. No amount of alcohol, no form of diversion, not even punishing his body physically had managed to quell the voices inside his head.

"Why can't you talk to me here? What difference does it make?" Dean asked, his frustration augmented by the thought of his "responsibility" to his dad.

Biyen scowled, his own annoyance clearly displayed to the young hunter.

"This place is an insult to my people. It mocks everything we stand for. They…" he stabbed a finger in the direction of the casino. "… have lost their way. They have forgotten their heritage and worse."

"Look, I get that you hate the place. Hell, I even sorta get why. But we need some answers here. Don't you care about protecting your _people_?" Dean challenged him.

He watched the old man's expression soften slightly, a faraway look replace the hard gleam of Biyen's irises. Waiting for a reply, Dean shuffled impatiently. There was just something about the man's demeanor that made the back of his neck itch.

"I care greatly about my people. Everything I do is for the Ojibwe," Biyen answered finally.

"Then help me out. I just want to protect others from getting torn apart. Whatever's going on around here, sooner or later it's gonna happen to someone you know, someone you really care about," Dean pressed. "What if it was Nara?"

"Nara is not at risk," Biyen stated matter-of-factly.

The confidence in the shaman's tone puzzled Dean. Considering how obscure the man had been thus far, he found it odd that Biyen could seem so certain about his niece's welfare. Still, to say that the man was peculiar was an understatement. Maybe he just thought that he could protect the young woman.

"There are other Nara's out there, other people's daughters and nieces. What about them?" Dean pressed.

"Nara will be safe. I can keep her safe," Biyen insisted.

"How can you be so sure?"

The Indian said nothing, merely looked past Dean's shoulder and nodded in the direction of the casino.

"Go find your answers. Perhaps you are smart enough to learn the truth before it's too late."

Dean was speechless. He could only watch as the old man turned and continued his trek toward the main road. Frustrated, the hunter grumbled under his breath. He hated dealing with people that thought they were safe and impervious to all the evil things lurking just behind the dark edges of their vision. Their ignorance often resulted in his injury or worse, their death. Even more annoying were the ones who thought they knew more than he did when it came to dealing with the supernatural denizens of the world; fighting some creature while trying to keep a wannabe Joe Hero out of harm's way always ended up being a royal pain in the ass.

Yet, Biyen was something in between, something Dean couldn't quite put his finger on. The old man's mystic mumbo-jumbo made him seem strong, but Dean knew he was only fooling himself. If there really was some sort of evil creature out there feeding on people, then it was only a matter of time before it stopped snacking on the wayward stranger and started looking for a larger buffet.

He sighed, scratching at a persistent itch that resided just at the nape of his neck. Watching as Biyen's figure moved further away, he grumbled again and turned back toward the entrance to the casino. Heading for the main door, he considered calling Sam back, but as his hand tugged open the thick glass entry, the flashing lights and lively sounds of slot machines ringing captured his attention like the sparkle of diamonds to a bride.

Stepping inside, Dean drew in a deep breath. The air was heavy with the oxygen being pumped into the main floor and the strong odor of cigar smoke assailed his nostrils. He'd only ever been to a real casino once or twice, never one to tempt the poor odds offered in Vegas or Atlantic City when it was much easier to fleece the drunken truck driver or construction worker at some Podunk bar.

Approaching a dollar slot, he fished inside his pocket and drew out a ten. Waiting as the bill was sucked into the machine, he pressed the "max bet" button and hit "spin". The electronic wheels spun crazily, numbers zipping past too fast for him to see. Waiting until they stopped, he wasn't surprised when he hadn't won.

"One more try…" he muttered, digging out another bill from his wallet. Just about to slide it into the machine, a sultry voice startled him.

"Can I get you anything?"

Dean jerked slightly, startled by the sudden appearance of the woman beside him. His eyes scanned her body from head to toe, taking in the stereotypical Indian princess costume with its beads and incredibly short skirt that was little more than a narrow width of faux-deer skin wrapped around her waist and barely skimming the upper portion of her thighs.

He swallowed hard as his gaze took in long tan legs, legs that he could envision wrapped tightly around him as he planted frenzied kisses about her throat and points south. Forcing his eyes back upward, he took in dark brown eyes set amid unblemished skin and framed by two thick black braids held in place by twin leather thongs.

"I said… can I get you anything to drink?" she repeated, her weight shifting to one leg as she waited impatiently for his response.

Dean blinked rapidly and cleared his throat suddenly gone dry.

"Uh… er… something…" he fumbled.

"Yes? Something? Would you like something?" she asked once again.

"Oh yeah!" Dean answered with a grin, his eyes still fixated on her.

She smiled, white teeth gleaming in contrast to her tawny skin. "I'm not on the menu," she stated snidely.

"Just shows you how bad my luck really is then," he quickly countered .

"Aw… I'm sure it will turn around," she replied. "How 'bout a cold beer or maybe a shot of Jack. You strike me as a JD kinda guy."

Dean nodded, his eyes never leaving her face. "That's a start. So, tell me… Cadee…" he began, stealing a quick glance down at the teepee shaped name tag jutting out on her ample chest. "Can you tell me where I can find John Tall Bear?"

She cast him a perplexed look, her demeanor suddenly shifted as her eyebrows pinched together. "Why do you want to see him? Are you a Fed?" she asked suspiciously.

Dean chuckled and shook his head. "Why would you ask that? Do I look like a Fed?"

"No, considering the bruises, you kinda look like someone mistook your face for a punching bag," she replied sarcastically. "But then, isn't that the way Feds are s'posed to look? Blending in and all. Are you undercover?"

"Maybe…" the young hunter answered. "But tell me why you think the Feds would want to talk to your boss?"

Cadee shrugged. "I'm not stupid, I know what goes on in the back rooms."

"And what is that exactly?" Dean pressed.

"Look mister, just let me get your drink. I don't want trouble. This is just a job, a good paying job," the brunette answered, nervously glancing over her shoulder at the crowded casino.

Dean nodded silently, watching as she dashed off. He turned back to the slot machine but Cadee's panicked behavior had piqued his curiosity and gambling didn't seem to hold its prior attraction.

He slowly ambled further into the main level of the casino, his eyes taking in the dozens of machines, the haunted look of some of the players as they robotically punched buttons or fed the slots. Near the center, several tables were surrounded by gamblers, some quiet and reserved as dealers handed out cards, others boisterously shouting as they rolled dice or watched the roulette wheel.

It was somewhat surreal, the amount of money changing hands as the patrons tempted luck. He watched from the periphery as an older man peeled a wad of fifties from a wallet within his jacket and placed them on the blackjack table. The dealer quickly scooped them up and replaced them with chips as the man toyed with one red one, rolling it along the back of his fingers as he contemplated the cards before him.

As Dean observed, the old guy blew through the stack of chips in just five hands, twice losing instantly when the dealer hit blackjack. With a grunt, the man rose and trudged away from the table, Dean watching as he made his way to a nearby ATM.

He shook his head, unable to comprehend the amount of cash the man had just lost. Money like that was a rarity in Dean's existence and for all his bravado at the poker table, he _knew _when to walk away. A fraction of that amount was more than he and Sam had in their pockets at any given time. Dean could only imagine what he could do if he had a few thousand at his disposal.

"Get a decent hotel room for once, with clean sheets and room service," he mumbled absently.

"Was that an offer?"

Cadee had managed to find him again. Her face still held a look of worry despite her forced attempt at humor.

_What or who is she afraid of?_ Dean wondered.

"It could be," the hunter replied, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

She lifted the tray containing the shot glass filled with amber liquid toward him. Dean nodded his thanks before tossing back the whiskey.

The strong bite of alcohol burned as it traveled down his esophagus and his stomach grumbled as if to say, "Hey, didn't we just do this last night?" He ignored the brief queasiness as he gently set the empty shot glass back on Cadee's tray. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled a twenty out of his wallet and laid it atop the empty glass.

Cadee smiled. "That's a helluva tip. What do you want?" she asked suspiciously, but immediately stuffed the bill underneath the fabric of her halter top.

Dean watched her fingertips snake beneath the brown cloth, briefly exposing the soft mound of a breast. His concentration wavered; his mind picturing his hands as they skimmed across her flesh, her hands as they slipped underneath his shirt and rubbed against his chest.

_Focus, Winchester! You're on the job here…._

He sighed dejectedly, knowing that as much as his body craved being lost in the warm comfort of the young woman, he had a job to do. If Sam had been pissed at him before, no doubt his brother would go ballistic if Dean took a little side-trip down the "one-night-stand" road.

Still, if the booze wasn't helping to quiet his dad's voice inside his head, maybe some good old fashion sex would.

"Cadee, look, as much as I'd love to get to know you better, and I do mean _know_ in the biblical sense, I truly have to talk to John Tall Bear," he said plainly, trying to mask the disappointment in his voice.

The young woman looked all around the casino floor. Dean couldn't tell who or what she was looking for, but he was certain that there were plenty of "eyes" on them.

"Please," he implored her. "It's important that I speak to him."

Cadee looked him over then nodded slowly. "Follow me. He's in the Northwoods Room. But he's not gonna like being disturbed."

Dean noted her warning and followed behind her as she led him through the maze of slot machines and tables. As they passed the restaurant, Dean's stomach grumbled in response to the delectable aromas wafting from the buffet.

He had to admit it was awfully tempting. Gambling, food and Cadee, this was like a dream vacation and Dean was certain he could easily enjoy spending a couple of days indulging in all the wanton pleasures the casino had to offer. Maybe just for a few hours, he mused. Didn't he deserve to take a break once in a while?

Yet in the back of his mind, his father's voice called out. _"Gotta stay on top of your game, boy! Gotta watch out for Sammy."_

_Save him or kill him…_

Reality came screaming back and Dean stopped abruptly, shaking his head to dispel the lingering whispers.

"Are you alright?" Cadee asked, dark eyes peering up at him worriedly.

He snapped back to attention, his eyes blinking rapidly as he ran a quick hand through the short strands of hair atop his head.

"You don't look so good."

"Nah, I'm fine," Dean replied after a second.

In truth, he felt less than fine and slightly better than death warmed over. Last night's little barroom brawl hadn't been as cathartic as he'd thought and not nearly as "fun" as he'd implied to his brother. The heat of the morning's shower that had originally loosened muscles and subdued the ache of bruises had now worn off leaving him feeling increasingly stiff and sore. His alcohol diet and the pathetic breakfast now left his stomach calling him all sorts of names and vowing to divorce the rest of his body if his brain didn't find some sort of common sense.

He forced an encouraging smile onto his face and motioned for her to continue on. They approached the elevator and Cadee pressed the "down" button. The door immediately opened and Dean followed her into the car. She pressed a code into the security panel and the door beeped before closing.

From the outside, the casino appeared to only have one sprawling level, but Dean wasn't surprised to learn there were hidden floors. He figured security had the entire place wired and under surveillance from nearly every angle.

He wasn't disappointed when the door opened and two burly men dressed in matching blazers bearing the Seven Clans logo stood outside with their arms crossed in a typical muscle, no-nonsense style.

"What are you doing down here, Cadee?" the taller of the two demanded, his eyes flashing over to look Dean up and down.

Dean didn't miss the subtle move of the man's hand to the lapel of his jacket or the bulge of an automatic weapon located in a holster tucked just underneath the man's arm. These guys were trained, not the run-of-the-mill rent-a-cops.

"He needs to speak with Mr. Martin," Cadee answered nervously.

Dean glanced back to her, confused by the name, but the young waitress gently placed a hand on his arm in a silent motion to stay quiet.

"Everyone wants to speak with the boss. What's so special about him?"

"He's a Fed. Says he needs to ask some questions."

Dean noted the exchange of suspicious looks between the two security officers. "We need to see some I.D.," the nearest ordered, holding out his hand.

Always one to be prepared, Dean dug into the rear pocket of his jeans and pulled out the flip-wallet that held the fake U.S. Marshall I.D. He flashed the badge and card, waiting patiently as the nearest guard checked it out, eyeing Dean as he glanced between the hunter and the identification.

The guard handed the wallet back to Dean and stepped slightly to the side. "I'll page Mr. Martin and let him know you're coming down."

Cadee nodded and motioned Dean to follow her once more. He remained close to her side as they continued down the non-descript hallway. Once they were out of the guards' earshot, he leaned in close.

"What's with Mr. Martin?" he asked.

Cadee slowed her pace only slightly as she answered. "Would you have any respect for a man named Tall Bear? He wants to pretend he's not Ojibwe when the big shots come around. We might be out of the way, but you'd be surprised the shady sort of characters that come up here to gamble in one of the private tournaments. So, he makes everyone refer to him as John Martin."

Dean considered the information. Was the young woman implying that Martin or Tall Bear had mob connections? Was there some other explanation to the deaths around Red Lake that didn't involve the supernatural?

"Cadee, can I ask you a question?" he posed, gently grasping her arm to halt her progression.

"Yeah, I guess so," she replied hesitantly.

"Did you hear about the deaths that have happened around here lately? The victims were all found torn apart."

"Yeah, who hasn't heard about all that?" she replied with a grimace. "It's been in the papers and there's even been a news crew up here from the Twin Cities."

"Did you know any of the victims? Ever see them around the casino?"

She paused and Dean could tell that she was scared as she looked back toward the guards and then up at a video camera mounted in the ceiling.

"It's alright… just part of my investigation," he assured her.

"Well, Deputy McNally hung out here… a lot! And that last guy, the one they said just got out of prison. He was here too. I remember him because he was hitting on all the girls. It took four of the security guards to finally haul him out of here after he damn near broke Jenny's arm."

"Is Jenny another one of the waitresses?" Dean asked.

"No, she's a dealer at the Pai Gow tables. The big guy was hitting on her something fierce, leaving her nice tips even though he wasn't really winning much. When Jenny got off that night, he asked her to go out with him. She said no, he insisted, and next thing I know, he's got her by the arm and dragging her toward the door. Pretty stupid really. Security doesn't put up with that crap."

"You said it took four of them to throw him out."

Cadee nodded. "Yeah, he fought them off like a maniac. He was drunk I think, but he was a huge man. It was sorta exciting, watching 'em go at each other. He even broke Dan's nose before they got the upper hand."

"And Dan is?"

"Oh, he's one of the shift supervisors for security. Doesn't normally get involved in stuff like that, but this dude was beating the crap out of his men. Dan looks out for his guys and for all of us. He wasn't too happy that this Patterson wasn't going down," Cadee elaborated.

"Did it end once they got him outside? Did anyone call the cops?" Dean pressed on.

The young waitress huffed. "You're kidding, right? Around the casino, security is the final authority. Short of a murder or something, they handle everything themselves. Hell, it would take the county boys thirty minutes to get up here. There's a small cell down in the lower levels, just in case security needs to keep anyone. But I don't think it's ever been used."

"Did you ever see Patterson again after the fight?"

"Patterson? That was his name? No, he never came back. I wouldn't even have thought about him again if it hadn't been for the news about his body being found."

"Cadee, do you think Dan and his boys could have done anything to him. After the initial fight I mean?"

"I dunno. I mean, they aren't bad guys, but they do follow Mr. Martin's orders to the letter."

That set alarm bells off in Dean's head. "Would Martin have ordered security to hurt Patterson? Was Martin here the night that happened?"

"Mr. Martin sees _everything_. And just because he has a nice manicure doesn't mean he doesn't get his hands dirty… if you know what I mean."

Dean did. He knew exactly what the young woman was implying and he was suddenly even surer that this job was something more for the real authorities rather than him and Sam.

Cadee resumed walking and after passing several doors marked "Private Suite", they ended up in front of an ornate looking entry with the words "Executive Offices". Dean was a little surprised. He would have assumed that a man with Tall Bear's apparent ego would have placed his office somewhere nearer the penthouse. Still, even though the place sprawled outward instead of upward, there was something ominous in the fact that Tall Bear/Martin chose to conduct his "business" in the basement.

He moved slightly off to the side of the entrance as Cadee tapped hesitantly. The door inched open and a very large, black-haired man peeked around the edge. Dean sucked in a quick breath, momentarily worried that the Kobine brothers might have had a fourth sibling.

"What do you want, Cadee?" the big man demanded in a low voice.

"He needs to speak with Mr. Martin."

The Indian looked Dean up and down, his face scowling. "Mr. Martin is _busy_. He doesn't want to be disturbed right now."

"He's a federal agent. He needs to speak with Mr. Martin about the recent deaths," Cadee stated simply.

Dean tried his best to look no-nonsense and official as he returned the big man's hard stare. He hoped the bruises marking his face didn't lessen the tough-guy fed look he was trying to maintain.

The security guard looked behind him and huffed with irritation. "Mr. Martin's not gonna like being interrupted, but come on," he grumbled, opening the door further and motioning Dean inside.

The hunter entered the room, his eyes slowly adjusting to the dim lighting. He heard the door close behind him and spun around to look for Cadee, realizing she had remained out in the hallway as the big Indian drew up to his side.

"Follow me!" the man ordered and moved further into the room.

Dean trailed behind him, his skin itching nervously as his eyes fought to take in the place. The walls were covered in red wallpaper that in the dim light looked like Freddy Krueger had decorated it with gallons of blood. The appearance was made worse by the odd lighting. Lava lamps adorned two end tables while LED disco lights flashed from opposite corners. Add to that the techno music thrumming throughout the room and the total effect was bizarre to say the least.

Following behind the guard, the hunter's gaze fell on three shadowed forms draped across what appeared to be a large round bed. As his eyes fought to adjust to the black light glowing above the group, he realized from the sounds that the threesome was hardly sleeping.

"Mr. Martin…" the guard began tentatively.

More muffled sounds emitted from beneath the tangle of sheets.

"Uh… Mr. Martin… there's someone here to speak to you."

There was a chorus of moans and even in the peculiar lighting Dean could see the blonde curls of one of the women peek out from underneath the sheets.

"I wasn't to be disturbed," an angry shout sounded from the bed.

"He's a US Marshall, boss. Security called down here about him," the guard continued.

There was a brief pause and Dean heard the sound of something solid striking flesh followed by the quick gasp of pain from a female voice. The hunter jerked slightly, his imagination filling in the blanks of what his ears had heard.

"I don't give a damn who he is…" Tall Bear/ Martin repeated.

There was another rustle of fabric before Dean heard yet a second cry from the bed. It was obvious that Martin's preference for sex leaned toward the rough side. There were a couple more squeals and a soft sob as the casino boss continued to satisfy himself. From the groans, Dean was sure that the women weren't having such a great time and it took everything he had to remain still. While the young hunter had never turned down a good porn video before, standing here with a front-row seat to this man's sick tastes was enough to make his stomach churn.

A loud smack followed by a high-pitched yelp, forced him into action. He surged forward despite the security guard's restraining hand, and grabbed at the end of the red satin sheet. Yanking it back, he exposed the tangle of limbs, his hands grabbing for the thicker leg of the male.

"What the fuck!" Martin cried out as Dean pulled him from the bed by his ankle.

Dean smiled with satisfaction as the Objiwe leader dropped to the floor with a solid thud. As his eyes glanced back to the naked women on the bed, he considered delivering one or two well-placed kicks to Martin's body in repayment for the condition of the two females.

"I don't know who the hell you think you are, but you're gonna pay for this asshole," Martin snarled as he struggled to get to his feet.

Dean ignored the threat and walked past him to the side of the bed where the woman sat in shocked disbelief. He reached into his pocket and offered his handkerchief to the nearest blonde. She eyed him suspiciously before slowly accepting the gift and dabbing the edge of the fabric to the corner of her split eye.

In the colors of the black light, Dean couldn't tell if she was badly injured, but she seemed pretty enough and he wondered why she put up with this type of abuse off of Tall Bear. Shrugging, he pulled up the sheet and offered it to her so she could cover her naked body. There was a discarded robe on the floor at his feet and he grabbed that and handed it to the other woman.

"Paul! Get your ass moving and get this dickhead the fuck out of here!" Martin demanded.

Dean felt the guard grab the back of his arm and tug him around. Twisting, he pulled free only to have the muscular man throw a solid punch to his gut. The impact stole away his breath, but Dean managed to remain on his feet. Before the dark-haired guard could land another blow, the hunter yanked the .45 from where he'd tucked it into the waistband of his jeans and pointed it at the oncoming man.

"Don't do it!" he warned. "I got no problem with putting a round right between your eyes."

The guard stopped and raised his hands in submission. Dean motioned him to back up with the muzzle of the automatic.

"Outside! Now! And take the girls! Get them the hell out of here and cleaned up," he ordered the man.

Dean didn't wait for the muscular guard to carry out his commands. In two steps, he was back in front of Martin. The casino boss was several inches shorter than him and Dean was hard put not to make a comment about the "Tall Bear" name. Instead, he used the height difference to his advantage, coming to stand close enough that their chests nearly touched.

Jamming his finger into Martin's ribcage, he forced the man to crane his neck to look up at him.

"Now pay attention you sick, sadistic bastard. I was ready to just ask my questions and leave you alone. But now, I'm thinking I need to call in a few of my buddies from the district office in Chicago so we can investigate every tiny facet of John Tall Bear's life. It shouldn't be too huge an inconvenience, we'll only have to shut down the casino for a week or two, interview every single person you have listed in your computer or Blackberry, and then, once we're satisfied that you have nothing to hide, I'll _consider _not hauling your ass in for aggravated assault on the two woman that were just here."

Dean could feel Martin shrink within his grasp. "You wouldn't do that?" the smaller man asked, the panic not masked in his voice.

"Try me," Dean hissed.

The room became silent except for the still thrumming beat of the Moby-esque tune emitted from the hidden speakers. Before him, Martin sagged down to the bed, uncaring that he was naked in front of the intruder the entire time.

"Alright… alright. What the hell do you want from me?"

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding. He couldn't believe that his ruse had thus far worked on someone like Martin. He figured the casino boss would have put up more of a fight. Still, men like Martin or Tall Bear, often tried to act bigger than they had the balls to backup.

"I came here to ask you a couple of questions about the recent deaths around Red Lake. I'm still willing to turn a blind eye to the other things I've seen here if you cooperate with my investigation," Dean offered.

"What do you want to know?" Martin acquiesced.

"Let's start with Gene McNally. What can you tell me about him?"

"McNally? You mean that dumbass deputy that dropped all his paychecks up here?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, sarcasm dripping in every word. "the same guy that left an ex-wife and four year old little girl behind with nothing."

"Hey, that's not my problem. We take every step required by the Minnesota Gaming Commission to help people that have problems with gambling," Martin insisted.

"I'm sure you do. But that's not the important thing. I want to know how he got gutted like a pig and left on the side of the road."

"I don't know anything about that."

"Sure you don't. From what I heard, McNally was into the casino for some major bucks. You just said he was a regular. The way I figure it, the deputy's paycheck wasn't enough. He came to you looking for a stake so he could break even. And I'm betting you're just the type that wouldn't hesitate to hold something like that over a cop. I think you loaned him money thinking you could keep him in your back pocket, but when McNally couldn't pay you back, you decided to make an example of him to anyone else that stiffed John Martin," Dean rattled off vehemently.

Martin shook his head and laughed. "Do you think I'm that stupid? Yes, McNally was a crappy gambler, but I'm not dumb enough to draw the sort of attention a dead cop brings around."

"No? Seems to me that if you wanted to impress your Chicago buddies, that's _exactly_ the kind of thing you'd do."

"Look mister, I just run a small gambling business. I'm not exactly Joe Pesci in _Casino_."

Dean shrugged and chuckled. "Well, that's debatable. You certainly are short enough to play Santoro. The real question is… are you as much of a psychopath?"

"You watch too many movies. It doesn't work that way. I collect a paycheck like everybody else that works at Seven Clans," Martin insisted.

"Sure you do. From what I hear, you're the one that has the most to gain from the success of the casino. Besides, from what I saw when I came in here, you're not exactly a saint."

"Believe what you want. Those girls are consenting adults. They know what I'm like in bed and they all want it."

"I bet they don't get to read the fine print," Dean snarked.

"If that's all you want then, I've got a business to run" Martin said impatiently, rising to his feet.

Dean slammed his hands against Martin's bare chest, pushing him back down to the bed. "Not quite," he growled. "Let's talk about Charles Patterson."

"Who the hell is that?"

"Funny. You supposedly know everything that goes on in your casino and you don't know about the ex-con your boys beat the hell out of a couple weeks ago?" Dean queried.

"My security takes care of lots of problem guests. People gamble, they drink, they get drunk and they lose. It's not always a pretty combination," Martin explained matter-of-factly, absently picking at the edge of one nail as though he were bored.

"You're all heart, you know that? But how about I refresh your memory a little? Charles Patterson was hitting on one of your dealers, when he wouldn't leave peacefully, your boys helped him out the front door."

"They have a job to do. What can I say?"

"Did their job include dragging him outside, beating him to death, gutting him and leaving his body by the side of the road?" Dean challenged.

"You're a knight in shining armor, would you prefer we let some piece of scum ex-con hurt one of our ladies?" Martin threw back.

"Protect the girl, yes… but ripping out the guy's liver… that's going a bit too far wouldn't you say? But I'm guessing that's you way of sending a message to any future Gene McNallys or Charlie Pattersons."

Martin flew up from the bed and Dean jerked defensively. The smaller man got right up in the young hunter's face, his fists balled tightly at his side.

"I'm tired of your insinuations. I run a decent establishment and my security operates well within gaming standards. If you have any concrete proof that we were involved in any crime, then you bring the warrant and I'll go peacefully. Otherwise, get the hell out of my casino!"

Dean paused as he considered punching the man in the face, but restrained, knowing that security was right outside the door and not relishing the thought of a second beating in less than forty-eight hours.

Narrowing his eyes, he glared down at Martin. "I'll leave, but you'd better believe I'll be back," Dean promised, his voice low and threatening.

He turned toward the door as though he was going to leave, but abruptly spun around and stabbed his finger into Martin's chest. "And one other thing," he continued. "If I ever… EVER… find out you've hurt another woman, whether she was in bed with you or you accidentally bumped into her walking through the casino… I WILL come back here and mess you up so bad that you won't be able to get a ninety year old blind prostitute to ever sleep with you again."

Martin chuckled nervously, swallowed audibly, and Dean was certain that small man paled slightly even in the strange hues of the black light. He glared at the casino boss a moment longer then turned and walked for the door.

The big guard was waiting just on the other side and Dean nodded to him and strolled past without a single word. He held his breath as he walked down the hallway towards the elevator, his gut warning him that Martin wouldn't just let him make threats and leave. Dean knew his type too well and what they lacked in physical size was generally made up for in money or power.

Still, he didn't care. Scum like Martin needed put in their place once in a while. He was more than happy to be the person to do it.

Reaching the elevator, the secondary set of guards merely eyed him as he stepped inside the car. They didn't move and Dean was more confident about getting out of the place with no more bruises.

In seconds, the elevator reached the main floor and he stepped out into the lights, sounds and bustle of the casino. Glancing at his watch, he considered giving the poker tables a try or maybe even grabbing a bite to eat out of the massive buffet. It was still early and surely Sam was being well-occupied by the exotic Nara.

_SAMMY! _

"Crap, forgot to call him back…" he groaned.

Digging the cell phone out of his pocket Dean scrolled down to his brother's number. The phone rang once, then again and he knew his brother was either ignoring him for Nara or was still pissed because he'd hung up on him earlier.

"Probably pissed," Dean mused aloud. "He's been nothing but pissed at me for days. Pissed 'cause I won't talk and then pissed when I do."

_And how much of that is your fault?_ his conscience jabbed at him. _Maybe if you would just tell him what Dad told you, it would get him off your back and make it all-around easier?_

_Easier? How the hell will it make it easier? How is telling Sam that his father told his brother that he's destined to go darkside and if he does…_

_If he does…._

_IF?_

"Dean?"

Sam's voice broke through the older man's internal dialogue. Dean's head snapped up as he fumbled for a reply.

"Hey bro… Sorry about earlier…" he began.

"Dude, I'd really like to kick your ass for hanging up on me. What the hell?"

"Sorry Sammy, but we'd just gotten to the casino and Dances With Wolves took off on me," Dean explained.

"Biyen left?" Sam asked.

"Yeah, took off like a bat out of hell. He grumbled something about not wanting to step foot near the casino. Anyway, it doesn't matter. I managed to talk to John Little Dick without him."

"Dean… what did you do?"

Dean snorted. "I didn't do anything, Sammy. I swear I only talked to the guy. It's not my fault the dude's a major asshole."

He could hear Sam's exasperated sigh on the other end. He could even picture his brother's eye roll and petulant pout.

"Did he tell you anything useful?" Sam asked finally.

"Not so much. He pretended he didn't know anything about either McNally or Patterson, but it was a lie. I'm not even convinced that he's totally clean when it comes to the murders around here. He's a cocky S.O.B. and I wouldn't put it past him to have his security do the dirty work for him," Dean replied.

"Do you really think he's involved?"

"Yes… no… I dunno. He's definitely got a kink for rough sex… so maybe it's not a stretch for him to cut out the liver of people that cross him."

"Do I even want to know about the sex thing?" Sam queried.

"Get your mind out of the gutter. I caught the bastard in bed beating the hell out of these two chicks that were with him," Dean snapped back.

"Can he still walk?"

Dean chuckled. His brother knew him too well. "He could when I left. But I told him I'd come back if I ever found out he did it again."

"So you threatened him?" Sam summarized.

"It wasn't a threat, Sammy. It was a promise."

He heard his brother grunt in agreement. They might not always see eye to eye on every little thing, but he knew Sam despised abuse as much as he did. The only difference was that Sam managed to keep a cooler head about it; Dean preferred to repay it in kind.

"So, are you headed back now? Nara told me about another body."

Dean glanced around the busy casino; the flashing lights, the squeals of someone winning, and the sight of familiar black braids each tempting him away from any further research today.

"Uh… I was thinking about asking some more questions up here," he answered hesitantly.

"Is she pretty?"

Dean snorted indignantly. "What? You think I can't focus on the job?"

"Not if she's tall, blonde and has big boobs… no!" Sam threw back. "Really Dean, we're working a case here."

"Are we?" Dean snapped back. "And how did you spend your afternoon, Sammy? Are your eyes and fingers worn out from doing research on the laptop? Or did you even make it out of the little store?"

The pause was the only answer Dean needed. He knew Sam had spent the afternoon with Nara, in fact, he was pretty sure he could hear the young woman's voice in the background.

"Look… do whatever the hell you want, Dean. I'm going back to the motel. Just don't expect me to drag your sorry ass back there later tonight," his brother growled.

"Never asked you to, bro. I told you before, I've been taking care of myself for a long time without you help," Dean replied angrily.

A heavy silence settled over the cellular and despite the general racket of the casino, Dean could hear Nara asking Sam if he was okay on the other end.

_Great! You managed to do it again, Winchester. Can you even go five minutes without starting a fight with Sam?_

He sighed and ran his free hand through the edge of his hair. _Fix it Dean! You're gonna drive him away again… he'll leave you just like before… you promised Dad you'd watch over him… can't do that if you push him away. _

"Sam, hey… I didn't mean to take your head off. I guess I'm just tired and sore from last night. They have a decent restaurant here. How 'bout I grab us some chow and we can compare notes back at the motel?"

Dean waited for his brother's response, his gut churning as he wondered if Sam would carry on the argument or meet him halfway at his apology.

"Yeah, okay, Dean. That sounds good. And seriously, Nara did tell me about another death that we didn't know about," Sam finally replied.

The young hunter relaxed slightly, still somewhat disappointed that his evening of food, fun and Cadee had just been nixed, yet content that at least for now, he and Sam weren't fighting. He asked his brother what he wanted to eat and then promised the younger man that he'd be back to Red Lake in about an hour and a half.

Ending the call, Dean cast a last glance at Cadee as she moved over toward the Blackjack tables. He nodded at her and she waved back with a warm smile. His lower brain condemned him for the missed opportunity with a twinge, but his better sense told him it wasn't worth the on-going drama with Sam to indulge his own needs at the moment. With a deep sigh, he turned away and moved toward the restaurant.

As he approached the eatery, he felt hands grab his arms from behind and roughly thrust him forward. He slammed into the nearby wall, the air compressed from his lungs as first his chest and then his face were pressed into the rough plaster.

He tried to fight back, but the same muscular arm was now wedged against the back of his neck. He cursed loudly and tried to free his arms, but someone or something else had managed to pull them behind his back.

"Mr. Martin wants you out of his place… NOW!" a gruff voice shouted, emphasizing the command by jerking Dean's right arm upward.

He bit back a yelp but managed to groan out the most defiant retort he could manage. "I see… your boss… leaves the dirty work to his dogs… Do you sit up and beg for him too?"

He knew the punch was coming even before it impacted his kidney. There was no way to absorb it, his body jammed so tightly against the wall, all he could do was squeeze his eyes shut and let the pain rush through him.

As his head cleared he heard the men grumbling between themselves. Dean knew what was coming next, but as they yanked him around, he saw they'd come _en masse_. As they _escorted_ him through the casino and towards the rear, his worry increased tenfold. This wasn't going to be a "friendly" show of force; he'd humiliated and then threatened Martin. This was payback.

The outside air had cooled considerably as Dean was pushed through the door marked as an emergency exit. He considered the irony of the sign and for a moment wondered if by opening the door, the men had set off some sort of fire alarm. That just wasn't his luck.

One of the security guards kicked out the back of his left knee and Dean dropped to the asphalt. They quickly circled him as he struggled to get back to his feet. Unable to keep an eye on all his attackers, Dean didn't have the chance to resist as one of the men came up from behind him and grabbed his arms once more.

As their leader closed in, the young hunter managed to use the leverage to lift himself off the ground and deliver a solid kick to the man's chest. The dark-haired guard grunted as he fell backward, but just as quickly moved in again.

"You're gonna pay for that you sonofabitch," he snarled.

"You talk big with all the help around you," Dean grunted back. "Like to see how tough you are just one on one."

The man smiled, showing a set of full white teeth. It was like watching a lion yawn as it stalked its prey and despite Dean's bravado, he knew this wasn't gonna go down well.

Outweighed by at least forty pounds, the elder Winchester watched as the big man waved off the others. Dean felt his arms drop and he immediately squared off against the leader. He managed to get in the first blows, a combination of rights and lefts that pushed the big guy backwards and left his mouth and nose bleeding.

Dean pressed forward, knowing he had little choice but to attack fast and hard. He threw a strong left, connecting with the thick flesh of the man's abdomen, and then followed with a right hook that caught the guard's jaw.

His confidence elevated, Dean grabbed the man's thick hair and was about jam his knee into the already bloodied face when his target abruptly ducked and dove for his legs. He went down again, tangled amid the other man's extremities, his back flat against the pavement.

The first blow to his face hurt like hell as his head bounced hard against the parking lot surface. He blinked rapidly as his vision blackened for a second only to be replaced by the smug smile of the big guard kneeling down over him.

"That was for interrupting Mr. Martin's afternoon activities…" the man hissed.

Dean felt himself lifted back to his feet, his arms held behind his back once again by the other men. He braced himself as the leader's fist drew back. He took the next punch to the side of his stomach and would have doubled over had it not been for the hands holding him upright.

"That was for nosing around my casino…"

Under normal circumstances, Dean would have been able to shake off the blows and easily take on the four men. But his little exhibition last night had taken more out of him than he'd originally thought, or admitted. Instead, he had little other choice but to grit his teeth and hope it was over quick.

The last blow split his lip wide open, filling his mouth with warm, salty blood and jerking his head backward with the impact. His vision blurred like a television station caught between channels: the picture fuzzy but the volume blaring.

"And that was for me!" the head guard snarled.

They dropped him then, his body sagging roughly to the hard surface of the parking lot. On his knees, Dean watched as they slowly sauntered away, slapping each other backs as though their team had just won the championship. None of them seemed concerned with the fact that they had just beaten a U.S. Marshall, which made him wonder if they knew he wasn't or if they just didn't give a damn.

He decided on the latter as he pushed up from the concrete. If they knew his I.D. was a fake, surely it would have been worse. No… this was a lesson. Martin thought he was the king of his own little world. He wasn't going to let anyone tell him differently regardless of who they were or what they represented. Dean was getting more and more suspicious about the casino manager's involvement in the recent deaths.

With a groan, he wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. Staring at the rear door, Dean briefly considered going back inside to get the dinner he'd promised Sam. But the slight twinge of pain in his ribs made him decide that this was one of those times where walking away had merit.

Sucking in a deep breath, he let the cooling air clear his head as he got his bearings. The Impala was parked in the front lot; he was in the rear near the service entrances. It would have been quicker to just cut through the casino, but certainly not the healthier option. Sighing, he started walking toward the corner of the building.

A sudden wind blew through the tops of a nearby stand of trees creating an eerie low moan that washed across the landscape. It was followed by the sudden loud screech of some forest animal, the echo of the cry making it sound closer than Dean hoped it actually was. He spun toward the noise, his eyes scanning the darkening shades of the woods, but nothing moved.

Still, it was almost as if he could feel something just beyond his eyesight; something watching him, something malevolent. The hair on the back of his neck agreed with his paranoia, short wisps standing on end as he nervously patted the pocket of his jacket for the familiar security of his .45.

He stood there a moment longer, eyes and ears straining for any further noise or movement. When it didn't happen, he shrugged and loosed a soft chuckle.

"Spooked!" he chastised himself. "Freakin' wind and a cranky moose and you're ready to go Rambo. Good thing Sammy didn't see you."

Dean turned back toward the building, jumping as Biyen suddenly appeared in front of him. The old man's long white hair flowed behind him as the breeze tugged at the loose strands. He stood there silently, neither moving nor saying a word and Dean absently wondered how the old man popped up out thin air.

"Thought you refused to come near this place?" Dean quipped, smiling nervously even though the small Indian had nearly startled a year's life out of him.

"This land is sacred…" Biyen replied numbly.

"Yeah, well that's progress for ya," Dean replied. "Look, I can see now why you aren't a big fan of John Tall Bear. Not like he's the poster boy for American Indian Quarterly."

The old shaman merely stared back at him, his expression blank and emotionless.

"Okaaayyyy…" Dean added, breaking the brief silence and rolling his eyes. He started past Biyen, gently patting the man's shoulder as he passed. "So… you want a ride back to town?"

"I have work to do…" came the ominous response.

Dean turned to look back at Biyen, his curiosity paling as it gave way to suspicion. The Indian held something in his hand, his dark eyes peering down at it as though it were the most precious thing on the planet. Dean moved closer, his eyes straining to see what the old man had.

He stopped abruptly in his tracks, the voice in his head screaming out a warning a nanosecond before the young hunter saw Biyen look up again. Dean stood frozen in place, his eyes wide as the old man lifted his hand and blew across his open palm.

He wanted to move out of the way, his brain shouting out orders for self-preservation. But the neural synapses fired a fraction too late, his eyes registering the grayish powder as it became airborne and floated toward his face.

_Don't breathe! _

Dean closed his eyes, his hands flying to cover his face. Don't breathe! His brain yelled at him once more.

Eyes burning, his lungs aching, he spun about and tried to stagger away from Biyen. His knees were weakening, his steps faltering, but Dean knew he had to escape. His mind couldn't understand why the old guy had done this, whatever _this_ was, yet as his vision filled with an explosion of colors like a bombing run over Baghdad, the young hunter knew he was in trouble.

He fell forward, gasping in a breath and hoping the air was untainted. It wasn't. Whatever Biyen had thrown at him seemed to have clung to his face and shirtfront, the bitter taste of it stung his tongue and filled his mouth with saliva. He gagged, tried to spit it out and only succeeded in choking.

"It does no good to fight it…" Biyen whispered next to his ear.

Dean sputtered again, his breathing becoming harsher and more ragged even as his vision distorted everything around him like a bad LSD trip. The muscles in his chest constricted, his rib cage refusing to expand to allow any air into his lungs. His arms and legs became heavier, the limbs feeling as though gravity had just increased tenfold.

"Why?" he croaked out, his hand reaching up to claw feebly at his constricting throat.

He couldn't see, couldn't breathe and by that point, Dean wasn't sure he could trust his ears. But as he succumbed to the darkness nibbling at the crust of his consciousness, Biyen's reply sent chills through his body.

"You were chosen. You will be worthy…"

TBC….


	6. Dark Days Arise

_Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you, to everyone that read, reviewed, fav'd or even stopped by for a quick look. I hope I don't disappoint you with the upcoming chapters… (evil cliffies aside…) _

_Disclaimer: Don't own 'em… wish I did… but then again – I always wished I was an astronaut too… (NASA hasn't called yet..)_

Worthy

Chapter 6 Dark Days Arise…

_Four… five… six… door… turn…_

Deep sigh!

_One… two… three… four… five… six… wall!_

Glance at watch!

Six more steps, avoid the edge of the bed, reach the door and peer out the window into the thick darkness of night.

Repeat!

He was on autopilot, even though his mind was chugging like a runaway locomotive, silently considering all the possible scenarios that would explain his brother's absence.

… five…six… wall again!

Sam stopped momentarily and looked down at the faded carpet beneath his feet. He was certain he could tell where his pacing had worn the threadbare covering evening thinner. The room wasn't that large and considering his long legs, he had perfected crossing the small space in a minimum of steps.

_And why are you pacing? Worrying like the parent of a teenager long overdue from a date… _he silently chided himself. _Dean's a big boy. He's fine. You know how he is._

… _five…six… door…_

He looked out the window for the millionth time, yet the scene outside hadn't changed. No Impala. No Dean.

"Where the hell are you?" Sam grumbled.

It was nearly eight-thirty, well over four hours since Dean had called and said he was on his way back from the casino. He'd said an hour and a half, he'd said he was just getting them food and he'd be on his way. Obviously what he said and what he did were two different things. But then, was that surprising considering it was Dean?

"It was the girl. Had to be!" Sam continued on as he stole another look at the watch on his wrist. "It was just too much a temptation."

Gambling, alcohol and a woman… all the things that could, and most often did, distract his brother as effectively as a toy store would a child, especially considering Dean's mental status of late. Hadn't last night been proof of where his brother's mind had been lately? Wasn't all the brooding and anger a tell-tale sign that Dean had something brewing in his head?

Sam knew the signs, had been closely watching his elder sibling since they'd left the hospital in Missouri. Sure, at first he'd chalked up Dean's increased silence and moodiness as just an after-effect with his near brush with death.

_Near-brush? Now there's an understatement! _

Yet, even after their blow up on the road outside Medford, Dean's behavior had only become more strained. His usual easy-going humor was now forced, his smiles less frequent, his biting sarcasm edgier and tinged with anger. Even his usual gung-ho desire to hunt now ran hot and cold.

And when he did hunt… well he was downright scary; just as Sam had witnessed first-hand at the sawmill in Montana.

His brother was hurting… that had to be it. And knowing Dean as well as Sam knew him, the drinking, the picking of fights, the lack of desire to hunt and then blood-thirsty gusto when he did, it all was a manifestation of whatever was tearing him up on the inside.

Sam knew it wasn't physical pain, most of Dean's injuries from the wreck were long-since healed. No, this was something else. Something deep down inside that was tormenting his brother.

_Four…five…six… door again!_

_Maybe it was still Dad's death? _he mused.While Sam had never enjoyed a particularly deep relationship with their father, Dean had idolized the man. Everything Dean had become was a direct result of John Winchester's tutelage and lifestyle. He'd lost more than a parent that day in the hospital, Dean had lost his hero.

Had Dean grieved, really grieved for the loss of their dad? Certainly Sam hadn't seen him do so. Even at the funeral pyre, while the tears streamed down his own face as he watched the flames consume yet another loved one, Sam hadn't seen Dean so much as crack, his eyes hollow, vacant even, his expression remote, blankly cast in stone. He'd tried to get Dean to talk to him about it later, to verbalize all the pain he knew was being pushed deeper and deeper inside while his brother spent countless hours under the South Dakota sun working on the Impala. But Dean never broke. He merely plastered that stupid, weak smile onto his face and insisted that he was fine while he hammered on the twisted metal, working as though he could fix what was ailing him if he managed to fix the damage to the classic car. In the end, the Impala was returned to her glorious former self; Dean hadn't been so fortunate.

Sam shivered at the memory, his flesh suddenly covered with goose bumps even though the room was comfortably warm. He deviated from his path and sidestepped over to the small table where his cellphone lay with mocking silence. Snatching it up, his thumb hovered over the send button just as it had the half dozen times he'd considered calling Dean before.

_He could be in trouble…_ his conscience offered.

"He could be rutting around with some chick…" Sam answered verbally.

_But what if he's hurt. He said he was coming back…_

"He's not hurt. He's just trying to get even with me for sending him out there and he's probably still pissed about yesterday…"

_But he wouldn't have outright lied to you. He wasn't angry when he hung up…_

"Wouldn't have lied? Hasn't that been what he's been doing for weeks?"

_Call him!_

"Why bother?" Sam snarled in response to the voice in his head. "He's probably drunk or shacked up or both…"

_Call Dean!_

He was angry and his ire made him stubborn. Still, it was Dean, his brother, his only remaining family. And for all the times they had gone after each other's throats, it had always been in that "sibling" sort of way that never held any real enmity nor lasted for any length of time. They'd traded blows and insults, they picked and hounded on each other mercilessly, but never, ever, had they turned their backs on one another.

So, as much as Sam wanted to think that his brother was either out chasing a piece of ass, drinking to extreme or seated in some smoke-filled room playing poker, as much as he wanted to punch Dean in the mouth for his behavior, there simply was no way to ignore the "what if" voice in his head. It screamed with an intensity that wouldn't be dismissed and as he sat there staring at the cellular, his mind begin adding pictures.

Dean… busted up and bleeding following another fight. Dean… busted up and bleeding following some horrific car wreck. Dean… busted up and bleeding…

Yep, there was definitely a trend to his thinking... Sam hit the send button.

It rang several times, each toll increasing Sam's worry. Even when it stopped, the call going over to voicemail, the younger Winchester tried to tell himself that Dean was just ignoring him, that his brother was just "otherwise engaged."

"Um… Dean… call me back when you get this… I was just wondering if something held you up…"

_Yeah… that was subtle enough._ He'd managed to keep his anger in check, refrained from leaving any outright accusation, and succeeded in keeping the concern that was eating at his sanity out of the message.

Tossing the phone back onto the table, he rose stiffly and scanned the room for something to take his mind off his absent brother. His stomach growled softly, but Sam ignored it as he moved toward the television. It was too late to go to the diner next door, not that he was hungry enough to consider that food.

Snapping on the set, Sam was about to drop onto the nearest bed when a hard knocking sounded at the door. He startled slightly, but bounded up from the mattress, his heart pounding anxiously.

_Never heard the Impala…_ he thought abruptly.

_Dean didn't have a key to the room…_ the voice reminded him.

He turned the deadbolt and twisted open the doorknob even before he considered who, or what, might be on the other side. Cursing his carelessness, Sam loosed a sigh a relief when Nara's tanned face appeared.

"Sam," she greeted him warmly.

"Nara!" he answered with surprise.

Sam leaned around the edge of the door, his eyes searching the parking lot. The young brunette moved slightly to the side, confusion spreading across her face.

"I guess you were expecting someone else?" she asked with an edge of irritation.

"Huh? Oh…no, sorry. Please, come in, come in," Sam stammered in reply, stepping aside and gesturing her inside.

Nara walked into the room, her eyes taking in the small space with a quick move of her head. She turned back as Sam closed the door with a click that seemed to echo against the sudden silence.

"Where's Dean?" she asked coyly.

"Uh… not back yet," he answered.

"Oh? He's still out at the casino?"

"Yeah, I guess," Sam responded, not caring about the irritation that was reflected in his tone.

She laughed abruptly, causing Sam to stare at her curiously.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Nara continued when her amusement abated. "Who am I fooling? I knew Dean wasn't here. I didn't see that big black car when I was locking up and I just thought…"

He watched her carefully as she spoke, her face taking on a faint blush as she paused.

"What?" Sam asked, pushing her to continue.

"Well, I … err… I thought you might need something to eat," she finished hurriedly, lifting up a paper bag.

"Oh! Thanks, Nara! I appreciate the thought. Dean was supposed to bring back some dinner, but… well, he hasn't gotten back yet."

He gratefully plucked the bag from her grasp, opening it up to peer inside at the contents, his stomach fueling his curiosity. Pushing around some fresh fruit and a couple of wrapped sandwiches, Sam couldn't help but smile when he spotted the bag of Doritos.

"Are you joining me?" he asked hopefully.

She smiled and blushed more. "Ummm… I didn't mean… that wasn't why…"

"Nara! It's okay. Please… I wouldn't mind the company," Sam answered and motioned her toward the vacant chair next to the small table.

Nara glanced nervously around the room once again and he could see that she wasn't one-hundred percent comfortable with being there. Whether it was because they were alone or perhaps the lingering memory of her former boyfriend, he didn't know, but Sam was determined not to pressure the young woman. She retook the paper sack from his hands and crossed over to the table and chairs.

"It's not much," she apologized, taking the foodstuffs from the tall hunter and spreading them out on the table. "I just thought… well… you know."

"I really appreciate it. This is getting to be a habit… you feeding me," he stated with a chuckle. She blushed again and he smiled but avoided making eye contact, forcing his gaze down and obscuring it beneath shaggy bangs.

"Dean called and said he was going to bring back something from the casino restaurant, but I haven't seen hide nor hair of him yet," Sam added.

"You talked to him? How did it go with John Tall Bear?"

Sam huffed. "It was interesting from what Dean said."

"Did he find out anything about the deaths?" she asked.

"Nothing specific, but he wasn't so sure that Tall Bear wasn't involved in some way," Sam replied.

"Involved? How? Does your brother _really_ think John could have killed those men?" Nara asked.

Sam shrugged. "I don't know," he snapped. "And it's not like he's bothered to fill me in with the details."

"You're angry?"

"Just a little…"

"And worried…"

"Yeah…" he admitted softly.

"I'm sure he's okay," the brunette offered.

Sam moved over to the window. Tugging aside the thin curtain, he peered out into the heavy darkness.

"That casino has a way of distracting people. And honestly, Sam, your brother seems like someone that could be easily sidetracked at Seven Clans."

He turned back toward her slowly, part of him desperate to see some sign of Dean, to hear the low rumble of the Impala, or even for the cell phone to ring and his brother offer some lame excuse for his tardiness.

"I s'pose you're right," he agreed reluctantly. "But…"

Nara drew closer to him, gently placing her hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort. He shivered slightly at her touch, her fingers soft and delicate against the flesh on his forearm. Dipping his head, his eyes met hers and they stared at each other for a long minute.

"Uh… err… do you want something to drink?" Sam asked finally when the awkwardness became unbearable.

She broke the contact, stepping back several steps, those same fingers now worrying at the ends of her dark hair. "I… uh… I should go," she stuttered. "I just closed up and if I'm not home soon, Uncle Biyen will be worried."

She took a step toward the door and Sam darted ahead of her to open it. Swinging it inward, he stopped suddenly and moved to stand in the opening blocking her exit.

"Nara, have you talked to your uncle this evening? I mean, since he came back from the casino?" Sam asked excitedly.

Nara paused, her eyes moving upward as she seemed to consider her response. "No, actually. He never stopped back at the store. But then, he doesn't always walk me home. And his place is between here and the casino, so he might have just decided to go there instead of coming all the way back to town. My uncle isn't really very well, but he insists he's on walking everywhere and going out to the lake every morning."

Sam sighed at the news. He'd hoped that perhaps the old Indian might have seen Dean since their last conversation. Maybe Biyen had noticed if his brother had ever left Seven Clans.

"Sam, are you sure everything's okay?" Nara asked with concern.

"Yeah, I'm sure it is. It's just…"

"What?" she prompted him.

He sighed again and rubbed at the annoying headache that was tightening the skin at the back of his neck.

"I know it's stupid. I mean, I'm sure it's just Dean hooking up with some girl or screwing around at the casino… but…"

"But you think something else is going on?" the young woman finished his sentence.

Sam nodded and stepped around her to drop down on the bed leaving the door left wide open and allowing the cool night air to rush into the room. He didn't care at present. Despite trying to assure himself that this was nothing more than his brother's typical self-gratifying behavior, deep down he just had this nagging feeling that something had gone wrong.

"I can't explain it, Nara. My brother and I, well, maybe it's because we've been living in such close quarters for the past year, watching out for each other and everything… but I just have this bad feeling," he admitted.

Nara stepped away from the open door and sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sam. "I'm sure he's okay. Honestly, Sam, what could happen to him there?"

The chortle that escaped him was filled with sarcasm and Sam shook his head. "You don't know my brother. He has no trouble finding trouble. As a matter of fact, lately he's like a magnet when it comes to getting into nasty situations. He said he had a little run-in with your Tall Bear friend and I'm betting that someone like that doesn't put up with someone like my brother getting in his face."

"So you're thinking that John and his boys might have hurt him?"

"I dunno, Nara. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. There's really no reason to think Dean's in trouble, it's just that lately he's not been himself?"

"You mean like getting into fights with three guys bigger than him?" she joked.

Sam snickered. "Yeah, something like that. It's just that since our dad died, Dean's like this powder keg one minute – ready to explode, and then so withdrawn and silent the next. I know he's taking it really hard, but I just don't know how to help him."

"Have you tried talking to him?"

"Talk to my brother? You're kidding. Dean is like the poster-child for internalization. I swear to God I'm gonna have the words 'I'm Fine' engraved on his tombstone," Sam snarked.

_Yeah right…_ his inner voice mocked. _There won't be a tombstone for your brother. You'll salt and burn his body just like you did your father's._

The young hunter grew silent as visions of his dad's funeral pyre replayed in his mind. He swallowed hard as his stomach knotted up inside. He couldn't breathe, the feel of the heat and the odor of burning flesh as tangible as if he were back there watching his father's body burn all over again.

"Sam? You alright?" Nara's voice cut through his painful recollection and Sam's head snapped up.

He tried to feign a smile, but it was weak at best. "Yeah, I'm sorry, Nara. Look, I don't mean to dump all my family problems on you. Hell, you barely even know me."

"I bet I know more about you than you think," she replied mischievously.

"Oh really?" Sam challenged, temporarily replacing the all-consuming angst with enthusiastic interest. "And what do you know about me, Nara Kendall? We just met a little over twenty-four hours ago."

She rose and his eyes followed her movement as she repeated the same short stroll between the bathroom and the door that Sam had perfected earlier. She really was beautiful, her lithe body almost floating across the worn carpet.

"Well, I know you're really smart, too smart to be running around playing private detective, but you feel obligated to the life your father made you live so you won't consider doing anything else. I know you watch out for your big brother 'cause otherwise he'd wind up in jail or worse… the morgue. And I know you left someone behind at Stanford, someone you cared a lot about because you can't even look me in the eye and not feel guilty like you're betraying her. How am I doing so far?"

Sam shook his head, his mouth open but unable to form any words. She'd truly left him speechless with her nearly dead-on assessment of his life. Was he so transparent? Had he told her too much during lunch? He sputtered a reply but nothing coherent issued from his lips as he worried at the edge of his thumbnail.

"Sam, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say all that. Sometimes my mouth and brain don't seem to have any connection. Look, I should go. I've offended you enough for one day I s'pose…" she stammered out in apology.

He barely caught her at the doorway, his hand skimming against the denim sleeve of her jacket. "Nara, wait!" he exclaimed. "You didn't say anything wrong… in fact, you pretty much pegged me. Don't go… at least not thinking I'm angry."

Nara looked down toward the floor, her face obscured from Sam's view. He stepped closer and tenderly lifted up her chin with the tips of his fingers. Her eyes glistened with the threat of tears and he could feel her jaw tremble.

"Nara? It's okay… really!" Sam spoke gently.

She pulled away from his touch and once more hid her face, but Sam didn't miss the audible sniffle that squeaked out.

"I feel like such a fool," Nara admitted, her voice quivering.

"Why? Really, Nara, you didn't say anything wrong," Sam replied.

"I spent all afternoon looking for an excuse to see you again and then when I do, I stick my foot in my mouth…" she lamented.

"You didn't need an excuse…"

She turned back to face him, a thin smile creasing her tawny face. "Don't get the wrong impression," she began. "I don't normally do this… especially after…"

The brunette didn't finish, but she didn't need to. Sam knew what she was trying to say. Although he hadn't heard all the gory details of Nara's relationship with her former abusive boyfriend, he was certain that it had left lasting effects on the young woman. She'd been hurt and betrayed, her trust in men destroyed.

"It's _really_ okay…" he assured her. "I understand. You don't have to explain."

"You do?"

"Yeah, kinda. I mean… not in the same way… but I know how bad it hurts when you lose someone you love… no matter how you lose them."

She nodded thoughtfully but didn't reply. They stood there face to face for an awkward moment before Nara looked at her watch and then cleared her throat.

"I really should go, Sam. Uncle Biyen will be worried."

"Alright, but under one condition…"

"What's that?" she asked worriedly.

"Tomorrow, I buy lunch," he informed her.

She laughed, her smile more relaxed as she offered out her hand. "It's a deal," she agreed with a firm shake.

He followed her out the still-opened door, wrapping his arms around his chest as the chilled night air enveloped him. A light dew was collecting on the pavement that would likely turn to ice if the temperature dropped much more.

"Are you walking?" Sam asked, looking around for some sign of a car.

"It's not that far. I do it all the time," Nara replied.

"Yeah… but…" he protested.

Nara chuckled and patted Sam's arm. "Seriously, I'll be okay. There's a shortcut through the woods I use all the time."

"The woods?"

"Yes, the woods. I know my way around them. I pretty much grew up here," she reminded him.

"Yeah… but…" Sam repeated.

"Awwww… you're worried about me?" she teased.

"I already have my brother to worry about, I don't need to worry about you too!" he answered her earnestly.

"I'll be fine. And so will Dean… you'll see. Why don't you eat the sandwiches and kick back and watch some T.V? I'm sure your brother will stagger in here soon."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, you're probably right. It's just Dean being Dean. Thanks again, Nara… for everything."

She smiled in reply and turned on her heel, her booted feet making crunching sounds as she strode across the gravel. He watched her departure, her form eventually disappearing into the darkness once she was out of range of the meager streetlamps.

Turning around, he headed back inside the quiet motel room. He grabbed one of the sandwiches and a can of soda Nara had left on the table as he made his way toward the farthest bed. Turning up the volume on the television, he flopped down onto the mattress and kicked off his shoes.

He flipped through the channels, cursing the lack of cable before finally settling on a rerun of _Two and A Half Men_. It wasn't his preferred viewing fare, but beggars couldn't be choosey. Still, having seen it a time or two, he chuckled at the thought that the two brothers on the show could co-exist in the same house with such different personalities.

Were they really that different from him and Dean?

He watched on as Allen harassed Charlie about his most recent one-night stand and subsequent hangover. The banter between them held an eerie similarity and Sam glanced over to the empty bed to his left.

_It's just Dean being Dean…_ he thought again idly, feeling his irritation rise once more at his brother's callous disregard for keeping his promises.

Still, as the show droned on, Sam's appetite for the sandwich waned. Something deep in the pit of his stomach wouldn't let him relax. He pushed aside the niggling feeling of impending trouble and turned off the light on the bedside table.

Tomorrow was another day; and if Dean insisted on staying out drinking and carousing till the wee hours, then the least Sam could do was be responsible to carry on with the hunt. He wasn't his brother's keeper, and maybe it was time he acknowledged that he couldn't "fix" what ailed Dean.

With a sigh, he flipped off the T.V. and rolled over onto his side. Pulling the blanket up to his neck, he nestled into the scratchy blankets in order to stave off the chill that had settled into the room from outside.

Yet even as sleep claimed his over-worked mind, Sam couldn't help but think of his brother, wondering if Dean was comfortable and warm, wherever it was he'd ended up for the night.

dwWsw

Dean struggled back to consciousness like a boxer after a knockout blow. Noises were muffled and distorted, light oscillated between vivid flashes and engulfing shadows and memory, well his current thought processes were dulled and it was hard to tell reality from the jumbled information his dulled senses were sending back to his brain.

His eyes fluttered open, slammed closed and cracked open once again a moment later. Darkness enveloped him and for a moment he was worried that he was blind. But on the fourth try, he caught a glimpse of the moon, the glow streaming down through the interwoven tree branches that towered above him.

_Moon? Trees? What the fuck? _

He tried to reach a weak hand up to his face to scrub at his eyes, certain that something was causing this delusion. Yet as the muscles flexed beneath his skin, the chosen limb refused to respond.

Dean focused and tried again, this time resulting in the barest twitch of his fingers. It wasn't what he hoped for, but it proved he wasn't totally paralyzed. Even the threat of paralysis scared the crap out of him and he struggled more fervently to make his body obey his silent commands for movement.

The result was less than optimal, Dean managing to shift his legs slightly against the hard ground. The effort left him panting for air, the perspiration glistening on his face suddenly chilled him.

With no other choice for now than to lie there, he searched his memory for a replay of what had brought him to this place. He remembered breakfast at the crappy diner next to the motel, the conversation with Nara at the store, and as the day's events rewound, he even recalled his encounter at the casino with John Tall Bear.

_Okay, so far so good…_

But after that, things became fuzzy, memory failing him despite his best efforts to call it to the surface. Had he gotten drunk? Maybe he'd hooked up with some chick at the casino who'd rolled him and left him out at the edge of the woods?

_Caitlyn… no Carrie…. Cadee? But she wouldn't do this…_

As his vision continued to clear, he was able to take in his surroundings. The forest provided a fairly thick cover above his head; the only sounds reaching his ears were the nighttime insects and the distant call of some larger mammal. There wasn't even the faintest hint of a car or voices. Surely if he was near the casino, he would be able to hear some of those familiar sounds?

_That shot that theory all to hell…_

Panic grabbed his chest and squeezed his stomach. How did he get here? Why couldn't he move? While Dean didn't mind a good mystery, it didn't extend to involving himself.

Memory suddenly came rushing back to him in a burst of color and sound. Like the fast rewind of a movie, images flashed across the screen behind his eyes and made him nauseous. He'd gotten into a fight with the guards at the casino, but that wasn't totally it. He hadn't won that encounter, but then he hadn't exactly lost it either.

No, he remembered the men walking away and leaving him on the asphalt, bruised and bloody, but relatively okay – all things considered. Dean could feel the taut pull of abused flesh as he squirmed about on the dirt, his chest and head having taken the brunt of it twice in less than twenty-four hours.

"I really gotta stop blocking with my face…" he grumbled ruefully. "Alright, Winchester, you were fine after tangling with the Mob squad, so what the hell happened that you ended up out here with front-row seats to the Minnesota outdoor show?"

The lone call of a loon was the only thing that answered him.

Closing his eyes, he rolled his head slightly to the side and lifted his hand, relief filling him with the additional mobility. He rubbed at his lids, noticing as he did the gritty substance that clung to his lashes and then transferred to his fingertips.

The discovery brought back a new memory and Dean submitted as more flashes zipped through his head. The fading sunset, the casino loading dock, the nearby woods, each scene replayed like pages flipped in a book. He recalled the cry of some large animal, the sound having made him startle, his gaze searching the dark depths of the bordering forest but finding nothing.

Then turning back, set on making his way to the Impala, he'd spotted the old man.

"Biyen! You sonofabitch!" Dean growled.

The old Indian, his hand holding a brownish powder, moved closer. The voice in Dean's head had screamed at him to back away, to get out of there. But curiosity killed the cat, and apparently also left hunters unconscious out in the woods.

"That bastard poisoned me!"

The remainder of what had happened flooded back; the powder, the caustic sting in his eyes, the suffocating heaviness in his chest, collapsing to the ground – his body refusing to respond; he remembered everything. At the center of it all was Biyen and the last haunting words that Dean heard him whisper in his ear before oblivion claimed him.

_You will be worthy!_

"Worthy of what?" Dean shouted aloud. "What the fuck am I supposed to be worthy of you crazy bastard?"

He writhed on the ground, anger and frustration fueling his struggle. Inch by incremental inch, his arms and legs moved, and while he didn't have his full strength, it was enough to where he was eventually able to drag himself over towards a downed tree. His fingers gripped the moss-covered log, nails burying into the soft bark as he fought to rise. With a grunt, he pulled himself up to a seated position, his side leaning heavily against the wood as he sucked in a deep lungful of air.

When his breathing finally calmed, he noticed he was shivering, his body quaking with tremors as the damp night air ravaged exposed flesh. It wasn't horribly cold, but as his gaze drifted across his body, Dean noted that his outer jacket had been removed, leaving him in nothing more than a t-shirt, Henley and jeans.

With that awareness came the realization that he was also missing all the contents of the dark coat. He groaned, despising the fact that his .45, not to mention Dad's journal, had been tucked away in the large interior pockets and were now gone.

"Stupid sonofabitch!" he shouted, pounding his fist against the decaying wood. "Bad enough you let some old man get the drop on you, but now you're stuck out here without a weapon?"

He looked around, staring hard into the darkness, the moonlight barely enough to illuminate much more than the few feet surrounding him. He was encircled by a dense forest, any sign of civilization starkly absent.

"Wherever the hell _here _is…"

Straining, he pushed himself up to his knees, the exertion warming him slightly but leaving him breathless and exhausted. The view wasn't much improved, nothing more than dark trees and the smell of damp peat.

Dean had never been a huge fan of the great outdoors, preferring the soft comfort of a plush mattress over a sleeping bag and hard ground any day of the week. If truth be told, he silently dreamed about one day having a steady place to call home, to come back to at day's end. A place where he could have a decent meal not served in a Styrofoam container, a overstuffed chair where he could prop up his feet and watch T.V., and a bed; one so large that he'd need a roadmap to find his way from one side to the other. And of course, at some point in this dream, there would be a woman. Someone he could come home to. And not the garden-variety bar tramp, but rather someone that cared about him, that loved him unconditionally beyond the sex, and that wanted a life filled with peace and happiness.

"And then you woke up…" Dean groused, shaking his head ruefully. "There are no happy endings. How many times have you told Sammy that? How many times have you seen it for yourself? Evil takes and keeps on taking, the good people just suffer and die."

He rubbed at the pins and needles biting at his legs, not sure if the numbness and tingling was the result of the dropping temperature or an after-effect of whatever Biyen had drugged him with. In the back of his mind, he knew it didn't really matter what the cause. If he didn't get his ass off the ground and out of these woods, the end result would be the same.

"And I sit here thinking about a life I'll never have," he chastised himself. "Right about now I'd be shits and giggles happy just to be in some armpit motel room where the worst thing I had to worry about were the cockroaches."

Dean shivered again violently as the first droplets of icy-cold rain began to descend from the night sky. He looked upward, blinking involuntarily as the droplets plinked against his eyelids.

"Of course… why not? I'm stuck out here in the middle of friggin' nowhere so why should I even be surprised that it's starting to rain?"

_Winchester… your luck sucks!_

"Tell me about it," he replied, angrily swiping a hand across his face as the precipitation increased.

He had to get up, had to find a way out of the woods, had to get warm and dry and most importantly, had to find Sam. If Biyen had done this to him for whatever purpose, would the old man now go after his brother?

_Call Sam! _His inner self demanded.

But like the forty-five, his cellphone had been in his jacket as well and was now long gone. Frustrated and fueled by the paranoia that Sam might be next on Biyen's list, Dean cursed loudly. It didn't matter that even had he still possessed the lost cellular, the chance of getting reception out here in no-man's land was slim; Dean's only focus was protecting his brother.

_Save him or kill him…_

The familiar mantra came unbidden to his thoughts. Like an assassin, it crept along his subconscious, waiting for those moments when it could sneak-attack and leave him mentally bleeding.

"Not now, Dad. I don't have time for this crap right now."

He forced the thought away, knowing full-well that it would return like an irritating, unreachable itch. It didn't matter, Sam was all that mattered and right now dozens of horrible images were rushing through the young hunter's mind.

With a groan, he pushed himself up to his feet, swaying like a sapling in a stiff breeze, his legs seeming to lack any strength. His vision filled with a starburst of color but he managed to remain upright by sheer force of will despite the vertigo's best effort to plant him face down in the dirt. The rain pelted him harder now, and with the dropping temperature, it was quickly becoming more a mixture of sleet than liquid.

Dean grimaced and looked around. Which way to head? He really had no idea. But he knew if he wasn't careful, he could be wandering aimlessly through the Minnesota wilderness forever.

His eyes sought the ground, but there were no tracks to follow other than the ruts he'd made in the soft dirt from crawling over to the log. Glancing at his watch, it was just past midnight. Looking skyward, the moon was nearly obscured by encroaching clouds, but if he were to guess, it had crested and was on its downward arc toward morning.

"That means that way is west…" he assured himself.

_And that helps you how? You don't know where you are so you have no idea which way is back toward Red Lake or the casino. It could be any direction from here._

"Yeah," he snapped back at the inner voice. "But I sure as hell aint going north. Last thing I need to see is a 'welcome to Canada' sign"

_Go east… the lake has to be east of you. No way could the old man have drug you further than that…_

"But the motel is west of the lake. Sam is…"

_You can't help Sam if you don't get your ass out of these woods! Just move…_

Casting one more look around him, Dean huffed and took the first step in what he hoped was the direction of the little town. Pulling his sleeves down to cover his forearms, he then hugged his chest trying to retain some semblance of warmth as the wet mix continued to fall.

"At least he left me my boots," he sighed, silently grateful that he hadn't been forced to plod through the forest in nothing but wet socks.

He trudged along, not because of any lack of hope, but more that his limbs had still yet to fully recover from Biyen's powder. If there was any consolation, his vision had finally cleared, not that there was much to see. All in all, he was miserable, wet, cold and worried. But it was the last of the four that had Dean's relatively undivided attention.

Why had Biyen drugged him? Why then had the old man stripped him of his weapons and phone and left him out here in the wilderness? Sure, he hadn't really won the man over, but would Biyen have gone to these lengths just as some sort of retaliation for perceived wrongs against him or his people?

But then there was another reason. What if Biyen had something to do with the murders of the other men?

"Nah!" Dean snorted. "No way that old man takes down the likes of a county cop or an ex-con."

_He got you!_

"Yeah, after I went two rounds with Tall Skunk's men…"

_Maybe the better question would be – why? If it was Biyen who killed those other men, what was his motive? _

"Crazy old men need motives?"

_They do when the victims are found with their insides on the outside…_

"Good point! Still, assuming that Biyen drugged all those men… like he did me… how the hell did he get them all over the county?"

_Maybe he has help?_

"Maybe he has a four-wheel drive and a winch?"

_Did you see any tire tracks?_

"Details… good grief, I'm channeling Sammy."

_You're still missing the bigger point…_

Dean looked upward as the freezing precipitation continued to pelt him. He was already soaked through to the skin, his double-layer of shirts clinging to his chest while his jeans were weighted by wetness. Even his hair was plastered against his skull, short strands crystallizing with ice.

"I'm freezing to death and somehow I'm missing a point?"

_Can you whine a little more? Just keep moving and you won't freeze to death!_

"And now the voice sounds like Sam bitching at me. I wish to hell my family would get out of my friggin' head!" he bemoaned.

_Just keep moving Dean… focus on figuring out what's going on rather than the rain…_

"Yes, Sam!" Dean grumbled.

_So why would Biyen kill all those men and carve out their livers?_

The bedraggled young hunter continued in silence as he considered the last question. He walked in a straight line, his steps guided by the rows of trees to his right and left. Every once in a while, his eyes would catch some flicker of movement in the periphery and he would stop, peering out into the darkness while his hearing strained to pick up any noises. There was never anything out there, yet a twitchy feeling in the pit of his stomach was beginning to tell him otherwise.

_Why would Biyen kill all those men? What's the point?_

Dean shrugged even though there was no one to see the motion. "He's not too fond of white men or having them around here. Maybe in some messed-up way, this is his idea of getting even for the tribe? Maybe he thinks this is how to get them off sacred land?"

_By killing a half a dozen men? That's a slow way to go about it…._

"And it doesn't really explain the missing livers. I'm still not convinced that old man could go up against an armed cop, even a drugged one. And we know McNally emptied at least one clip at whoever was after him."

_Not like Biyen could outrun a bullet…_

"So, we're back to him having help? But who? No way is that Tall Bear dickhead working with the old man. Not even to get rid of the trash from his casino."

But, Dean's internal dialogue didn't respond. Instead, a loud rustle of movement in the treetops above him startled the hunter. In the darkness, he barely made out the cascade of leaves flittering lazily downward along with the continuing rain. He stopped dead, frozen in place as his eyes frantically scanned the canopy above.

At first, there was no sign of whatever caused the noise, but Dean didn't chance revealing himself. Holding his breath, he waited a long minute before slowly inching backwards until he felt his back press against the solid wet bark of a nearby pine.

His heart pounding within his ears, he waited and watched; his eyes the only thing moving as they darted back and forth, seeking out the source of the commotion. He hoped his inner voice would tell him it was just some bird, disturbed from it nest by his movement. Or maybe a large raccoon, scuttling about as it sought an evening meal. But those assurances never came. Even his inner voice knew it wasn't any of the above.

When no immediate threat presented itself, Dean slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. Carefully, he moved ever so slightly away from his meager cover, his ears still alert for any sound. He'd only taken a step or two when an ear-piercing screech reverberated through the pines like the shrill cry of some huge bird of prey.

It was everywhere, nowhere, above him but all around him. He spun crazily as he sought the origin, no longer concerned with staying invisible. His inner voice came back with a vengeance, screaming for self-preservation.

_RUN!_ It ordered.

But before he could process the command to his feet, through the haze of the downpour, he saw it. Red eyes, vibrant like small round pools of liquid fire, stared at him from an upper branch some several feet away. Blazing orbs that oozed malevolence, unblinking and piercing glowed through the night's darkness.

Dean didn't know what type of creature the eyes belonged to and at the moment he couldn't care. He was exhausted, unarmed and essentially lost.

_Run now! Run fast!_

And he did.

Without looking back, his feet slammed against the muddy earth as he took off in the general direction he'd been heading. He heard it moving through the trees behind him, could nearly feel its evil gaze boring into his back. It was in pursuit and he doubted he had the ability or strength to outrun it.

Dean sped through the woods, fear fed adrenalin pumping blood through his veins even as the precious fluid began to ooze from the dozens of cuts scored across his face and arms as he tore through the heavy brush.

Yet even as he raced for his life, his brain easily dropped into hunter-mode. Years of training and survival served to keep him calm despite the imminent threat. And the one thought that kept repeating in his mind as he ran was the knowledge that he'd found Biyen's accomplice. Or rather, it had found him.

_You were right, Sammy. It really is a hunt after all!_


	7. Here I Am Alone

_AN: I finally got this chapter done (phew) – no thanks to my muse who left for a couple of critical days and then after I dragged her back kicking and screaming – she demanded mass quantities of chocolate to appease the abuse… oh well… I think it might have been worth it…_

_Also- Thanks to everyone that's been reviewing – it really pumps me up… and those of you that have fav'd the story or me… hope I don't let you down…_

_Finally – a reader over on UnGen finally caught on to the chapter titles… yes- they are song lyrics… anyone over here want to take a stab. I'll post them in order/ in their entirety at the end of Worthy._

_Disclaimer: Still aren't mine- but they will be trapped within my DVR come Sept. 10th_

**Worthy**

**Chapter 7 Here I Am Alone…**

It was cold, and his entire body ached as though he'd spent a night in the woods with no fire and in a freezing downpour.

_Oh wait… I did!_

The sun's rays, though barely breaking through the thick cloud cover, gave him a first glimpse of his surroundings. Red-rimmed eyes scanned the clearing, the rows of trees having given way to a break in the forest. The ground was a sloppy mess of thick mud and standing water and Dean's boot prints from the night were clearly visible leading up to his current refuge.

It was a dismal morning, overcast and frigid following the previous evening's slushy precipitation. The hardwoods had dropped nearly the last of their leaves in the overnight wind and rain, and even the evergreens, their branches laden by the remaining ice, had submitted to the first bite of cold weather. Everything seemed gray, an eerie pall cast over the terrain. It was the kind of day that Dean would have eagerly pulled the covers up tight to his chin, rolled over and gone back to sleep.

Of course, that wasn't going to happen. Not here, not now. In fact, he hadn't slept at all the remainder of the night, remaining on watch for the creature. Having run until his legs turned to rubber and his lungs felt ready to burst, he'd eventually tripped over a downed tree in the darkness and pitched forward into a large deadfall.

Exhausted, he crawled deeper into the mass, pressing his back against the mound of decaying logs. There was nothing left in him to run, now was the time to hold his ground. Grabbing hold of a loose branch, he held it before him, prepared to defend himself as best he could, but deep down knowing it wouldn't be enough.

Yet the attack never came. At some point the beast had either given up interest or lost his trail. Maybe it was the heavy downpour that covered his scent and tracks. Maybe it decided that he wasn't worth the effort. Maybe the whole thing had all been some sort of leftover delusion, courtesy of Biyen's drugs?

But no, he knew what he'd seen and heard. The creature had definitely been there, hovering above him in the treetops, watching and waiting until it charged after him. He knew with all certainty that the screeching and cracking of branches as it tore after him had been very real.

And then there were the eyes… There had been no mistaking those horrible, red orbs as they trailed so closely behind, glowing in the darkness like lasers bearing in on him like the sights on an assault rifle.

.

Stretching carefully, he extended legs held too long curled up underneath him. His knees screamed at the movement while his calves and thighs threatened to spasm. With one hand clinging to the thick branch, the other rubbed furiously at the protesting muscles trying to stimulate warmth and blood flow once again.

"Gotta get mobile, gotta get out of here before that damn thing comes back," he murmured.

With circulation reluctantly returning to his lower limbs, Dean slowly pulled himself to his feet, careful to avoid making any unnecessary noise among the rotting logs and scattered branches. Upright, he paused, holding his breath as he listened for any suspicious sounds. Around him, the birds were already flittering about searching for food, their soft tweets and whistles echoing among the trees. A lone squirrel scurried up the trunk of a nearby oak; its cheeks puffed out as it carried food back to its nest.

Dean sighed with relief, deciding that if the mysterious creature were near, the birds and animals wouldn't be going about their business so casually. It instilled a small amount of confidence and he edged out of his makeshift cover.

Once outside the pathetic covering of intertwined branches and logs, he stretched, turning his face up toward a sky that threatened another dose of rain. His clothes hung loosely on his muscular frame. Partially dried by sapping precious body heat, they were no longer sopping wet, but instead were just miserably damp. He regarded them with distaste, wishing he could strip them off but knowing even in their present condition they still provided some meager warmth. Mud-splattered and torn from being snagged, his shirt was stained with small patches of dried blood from where he'd ripped through a patch of brambles. The holes in his jeans, once perhaps stylish, were now widened and red-stained as well.

Turning his attention to the immediate area, he took in his surroundings more carefully. Nothing was remotely familiar, not that he'd expected it to be. It wasn't as if he'd known where he'd been going last night when he regained consciousness, only that he was heading to his brother. Add in a desperate run for his life, and Dean wasn't even sure if he was still in Minnesota.

"Hell, I can't really be sure I even started out in Minnesota," he grimly thought. "No telling where Biyen dumped me."

_Nah, you're still around Red Lake,_ the inner voice assured him. _All of the other dead men were found around there._

"That's a comforting thought," Dean answered grumpily.

_You should get moving! You're wasting daylight and Sam's unprotected…_

"I know, I know… I haven't forgotten about getting to Sam," he replied, taking his first tentative steps toward the west.

_Yeah, but you haven't exactly been thinking about him lately either now have you?_

"What's that supposed to mean?"

_If you're so worried about your brother, then why aren't you there to watch his back?_

"Oh, like I chose to have some nutjob drug me and dump me out here to be pâté for some monster?" Dean growled.

_Not now, but before…_

"Before?" Dean questioned as he carefully stepped around the carcass of a dead rabbit.

_Back in Montana, when he was taken by Lenore. You were too busy trying to be best buddies with Gordon. What if those vampires hadn't been friendly? What if they would have killed him? _

"I… uh…" he stammered, his mouth going dry as he thought back to that night. "I didn't know… Things lately… since Dad… I just… I didn't mean…"

_You never do. Just like Fort Atkinson all those years ago… you were thinking about yourself then just like now and not watching out for your brother… Do you think Sam isn't hurting too? Do you think this is all about your pain, all about what you're dealing with? Who's watching out for Sam?_

"I'm sorry…"

_You said that back then too… Dad was disappointed. He trusted you to watch out for your brother and you failed him. He gave you another chance Dean. Are you going to let him down again?_

"But how? How can I do that? How can I watch out for him now, out here, with some friggin' creature tracking me?" Dean bemoaned.

_Save him… you have to save him, Dean. Save him or …_

Dean stopped abruptly, the voice in his head instantly changing from something that resembled his own alto to that of his father's deeper timbre. He shook his head like a dog with a flea in its ear, desperate to vanquish the words that were so deeply seared into his brain.

"NO!" he cried out. "Don't say it…"

_Save him or kill him… You won't have a choice if you don't protect him… Are you gonna let me down again? _

"STOP!" Dean screamed at the top of his lungs, his hands flying up to his head and covering his ears in an effort to silence the voice. Around him, the forest grew silent, startled by his outburst.

He stood there for several long seconds, the blood pounding in his head while his eyes remained crimped tightly shut. After a moment, Dean drew in a deep breath, slowly opening his eyes and raising his head. His father's ghostly whispers were still there, but he'd at least been able to turn down the volume just a little.

With a groan, he took a stumbling step forward, determined to focus on getting out of the woods alive. He'd been carrying the burden of John's last words for so long, he wasn't sure he could ever escape it. Yet, hadn't he really been doing that all his life? Following his dad's orders, obedient to a fault, dedicated to watching out for his brother at all costs, Dean had been hearing his father's voice in his head, both real and imagined, for as long as he could remember.

"I can't keep doing this," he bemoaned. _I'm not good to anybody, especially Sam. _"I can't protect Sammy if I can't think for myself."

_You need to give yourself more credit, Dean. You're not just John Winchester's son or Sam Winchester's big brother…_

"Am I really? What the hell else have I ever been?" Dean questioned as he absently watched his mud-slogged boots lift and fall, one step silently following the other.

His inner voice went ominously silent, his mind surprisingly blank and not offering any running commentary to his last query. He wasn't really shocked; it wasn't like his subconscious mind could offer any snarling retort. He _was_ nothing more than John's son and Sam's brother. He'd never really claimed any other identity for himself, content to play the role set upon him since that fateful night in 1983.

Could he really be angry at his father then for that last day at the hospital? When Dean's whole life had been dictated by one penultimate code, one never-ending command that he blindly obeyed, how then would have his dad thought to do anything less than issue one final order before he died.

Dean wanted to blame his father, wanted to blame him for everything. But he knew he couldn't. John Winchester wasn't at fault for what Dean had become, not really. It was the yellow-eyed demon that had started the chain of events that eventually led them down this path. He, his mom, his dad, Sammy; they were all merely pawns in some hell-spawned game.

That he chose to follow his father's orders, had eagerly taken up the mantle of hunter-protector, was really nothing more than taking a breath; an unconscious action, something he didn't even have to think about. He'd never had any other choice had he? Was he supposed to turn his back on his family, tell his father "No Dad, I don't think I want to watch out for my younger brother?" What kind of person would that have made him?

Granted, he certainly wasn't a candidate for sainthood, but Dean also knew he wasn't all that bad either. Or was he?

Certainly it seemed the harder he tried to please his father, the more he disappointed him. Rarely did he ever garner so much as a nod of approval much less a true pat on the back for a hunt gone right. In fact, the last time Dean could really recall John Winchester praising him had been when he was fourteen and had drilled a half dozen bulls-eyes repeatedly with the Taurus from over twenty-five yards.

Maybe it _had_ been Fort Atkinson that changed it all. Maybe his dad had never really trusted him after that point. But then, there was that bedside confession in the hospital, his dad telling him how much he had appreciated what Dean had done all his life, the sacrifices he'd made.

"Of course, then he turned right around and dumped that crap about Sam on me," Dean grumbled as he plodded along. Every so often his gaze shot up to the trees, his eyes and ears alert for any sign of the creature, but as the forest remained essentially silent, the young hunter returned his focus to his weary tread.

_You fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is, they don't need you…_

Dean shuddered as those haunting words suddenly repeated in his mind. He knew it hadn't been his dad speaking, but the sting hadn't been any less. If the demon could read him so well, could capitalize on his deepest fear, why couldn't his own father see through his façade?

Yet, neither had Sam…. His own brother, who he'd watched over like a protective mother bear for nearly eighteen years, hadn't even so much as looked back over his shoulder the day he left for Stanford. All the years Dean had played Switzerland to his brother and father's on-going war of wills had been over-looked, expected perhaps, as he was left behind with a parent that was so focused on hunting down his life-long nemesis, that he barely even noticed the devastation of his elder son, left in that wake of a final flurry of furious and hateful words.

"No, they don't need me. I'm not even sure they would have missed me if I'd have walked out a few years ago," he hissed angrily, slowing to kick at a small rock.

The stone went airborne. Propelled by the toe of his boot, it sailed at eye level and bounced off a nearby tree trunk like an errant golf ball only to land with a thick splat in the soft earth below. The sounds seemed to echo amid the desolate forest, stark against the sudden quiet that hung heavily on the air.

Dean stopped in his tracks, his senses quickly ramping up and reaching out to detect the reason for the unexpected silence. He didn't have to look far.

Perched atop a thick branch in a massive, leaf-bare Elm, the creature glared down at him. It was no-less intimidating in the daylight than it had been in the pitch black darkness the night before. Like an overgrown bird, it had massive, nearly transparent wings that were held slightly open. Each wingtip ended in what resembled a misshapen hand with four deadly-looking claws. One hand was currently gripping the side of the towering trunk, claws dug into the hard bark leaving no misgiving to their sharpness.

The remainder of the thing's body looked like a cross between an overly-muscular rat and the poorly depicted beast from a low-budget gargoyle movie Dean had watched late one night. Its skin was covered in sparse patches of charcoal colored tufts of fur that made the young hunter wonder if the thing had a bad case of mange.

Still, even in the cloud-obscured sunlight of the morning, the creature's eyes shone an ominous red. Large and set amid a skull that looked like someone had tautly stretched desiccated flesh over it; Dean could see every angle and jut of the bony structure underneath. It seemed as though the thing had been created by mixing together the parts of several dead animials.

"Well, don't you take the prize for fugliness?" Dean snarked, his eyes solidly focused on the creature. "And I thought that scarecrow in Burkitsville had skin issues."

The beast snarled in reply but didn't move. Dean flinched slightly at the loud growl, sneaking a glance to his left and right, his mind racing as it sought the easiest path for escape. In the daylight, seeing those wings, Dean wasn't sure how he'd evaded the monster last night, and even more importantly, he had no idea how he would elude it today.

That it would charge him, he had no doubt. But staring at the long talons gave him little confidence of coming out of any attack unscathed. Now all the missing livers made sense. And while he didn't understand why the creature had gone for that particular organ, there was no mistaking that it was responsible for the condition of the dead men's bodies.

They stared at each other for several agonizing minutes, neither Dean nor the creature so much as twitching a muscle. Dean's heart was hammering within his chest, despite his best effort to control his fear.

"Don't s'pose there's any way I could talk you into going after some nice, juicy rabbit?" he joked, forcing a smile to his face that wasn't nearly his cocky norm.

Dean was already planting his feet, slowly shifting his weight so he could turn to the right and head toward the thicker cover of evergreens. His only hope was that the beast couldn't follow him as easily underneath the dense cover of the pines and spruces.

The creature let out an ear-shattering bellow as it unfurled its wings, the branch beneath it creaking under the weight and movement. It reared back its head, its mouth opening to reveal twin rows of elongated incisors.

Dean didn't hesitate. He bolted toward the group of trees, forcing his legs and feet to push faster despite the rain-soaked ground's attempt to cement them in place. He ignored the sharp sting of the pine needles striking his face as he tore through the low hanging limbs. Only once did he chance a look over his shoulder to see if the beast was in pursuit. He needn't have bothered; there was no mistaking the crack of branches or the flap of wings as it chased him.

Darting right and left between the closely grouped trees, Dean spotted another clearing looming ahead of him. Out in the open, he knew he'd have no way to protect himself from the teeth and talons of the beast. Still, short of stopping where he was and burrowing into the trunk of a tree, he wasn't much safer here either.

He didn't have the chance to consider his options. With a screech as his only warning, Dean spun around just in time to see the creature drop down through an opening in the interlaced greenery. It took a couple of stumbling steps towards him, even as he backed away slowly, until it was close enough that it towered over the hunter by at least two feet, its warm, fetid breath washing across his face as he stared up at its hideous maw.

It lashed out at him with a swiftness that was surprising considering the massive wingspan. Sharp talons caught Dean's left shoulder and shredded fabric as they sought the softer flesh underneath. He staggered backwards with a hiss, the force of the blow nearly as painful as the now bleeding wound. He didn't take the time to examine the injury; it was the least of his concerns.

The creature advanced, red eyes glaring maliciously as saliva dripped from bared teeth. Dean could see his blood coating the things claws and knew with all certainty that more of his precious fluid would be covering the beast if he didn't get the hell away.

Back-pedaling, his boots digging in against the thick blanket of dropped pine needles, Dean scurried to evade the winged demon. He kept his eyes on the thing as he retreated, surprised when it didn't move in for the kill. It continued toward him, but moved lazily, almost nonchalantly as though it had all the time in the world to capture its prey.

_It does…_ he thought grimly.

Still, there was only one choice and he knew it. He could sit there and be shredded to pieces; turned into a hundred and eighty plus pounds of unrecognizable corpse for Sam to identify. Or… he could run.

Dean chose the latter, determined not to go down without a fight. Yet, even as he tapped into the reserve of energy deep inside him, he couldn't help but recall the autopsy photos of McNally, Patterson, and that deckhand.

_Oh God, the deckhand - _his inner voice cried out while the memory of the picture glaring from the screen on Sam's laptop replayed in his head. The nameless boatman, limbs torn from his trunk like a temperamental two-year-old was pissed-off with their ragdoll. In fact, the anonymous victim had been so thoroughly dismembered even the coroner hadn't realized the telltale liver had been missing until they'd "reassembled" the remains.

"So not gonna end up like the deckhand," Dean whispered, rising slowly to his full height.

He was going to run again, he knew it as well as he knew that as a defense, it sucked and offered him little hope of survival. But he had no other options.

Facing the creature, meeting its hellish eyes with his own weary green, Dean's jaw jutted forward with cocky determination. The beast continued its wary advance, a low continuous growl humming in the narrow confines of the closely spaced trees.

"Okay… let's see if you blink," he taunted before running directly at the towering demon.

Dean saw its eyes widen with surprise, but kept his legs churning even though his brain was screaming out derogative epithets about his intelligence, his parentage and even which part of his anatomy he was currently using for higher thought processing. Dean ignored the internal commentary; he certainly had to be one of the stupidest, sonofabitches sucking air right now. But if one thing had held true his entire life of hunting, it was that often times doing what was least expected often gave presented a window of opportunity.

Running as fast as his feet would propel him, Dean lowered his uninjured shoulder, prepared to plow into the beast. The creature stumbled backward, caught off-guard by the sudden game of chicken the hunter was playing. Dean yelled at the top of his lungs, twisting slightly as he abruptly dodged to the left even as the demon shifted to the right out of his way.

Then he was in the clear; nothing but trees filling his line of vision as Dean continued his escape. He didn't look over his shoulder, knowing better than to waste precious energy or momentum to confirm the obvious. Out of the protection of the copse of pines, he continued on, his eyes frantically seeking the next form of refuge. Behind him, he could hear the beast crashing through the last of the evergreens, gaining on him.

_Move… move… move… _self-preservation shouted.

His pace ate up the ground, feet slapping against the wet soil_. _He dodged past the taller, thicker oaks, darting in and out around them in an effort to shake the winged beast. The ground suddenly dropped away in front of him and Dean half skidded, half slipped to a stop just at the edge of a deep gulley.

His lungs heaved, desperate for air as he chanced a look behind him, certain the creature was right on his tail. The forest surrounding him was empty, devoid of anything large or small within sight. Dean spun in a circle, his senses reaching out to detect the demon.

He looked in every direction while his mind worked on which direction to head next. The woods and the creature were behind him, the huge ravine was to the front. He looked everywhere… east, west, north and south, his gaze seeing nothing but endless forest.

He looked everywhere… but up.

With a shriek that seemed to shake the very ground, the creature dropped from above, its wings unfurling as it plunged from the treetops above Dean's head. He had only seconds to acknowledge the sound and movement before the beast landed on top of him. Its weight smashed into his body, driving him down with a bone-jarring force despite the soft soil beneath him. Wings beat against his head and chest, even though Dean tried to protect his face with his hands and arms.

It was like trying to fend off a giant Alien with wings, minus the acid-tinged saliva. Claws tore into Dean's arms and legs, sharp teeth snapped mere inches from his face. The creature was heavier than it looked and he could barely breathe between its oppressive bulk and the horrendous stench tainting the quick gulps of air he could actually suck in.

Blood flowed from dozens of cuts and Dean couldn't help the bellow of pain that escaped his lips when long fangs buried into the forearm he'd used to block the beast's attack. With a surge of agony-fueled adrenaline, Dean kicked upward, his knees connecting with whatever passed for the demon's softer underbelly.

In desperation, Dean's legs and feet drove into the beast like pistons. His attack eventually brought success and the creature reared back with a screech, its weight momentarily lifting off the hunter. Dean rolled to his knees and tried to scramble out from underneath it, but it was back on him again before he moved an inch.

Claws dug into his back, hooking underneath the bony curve of his shoulder blade and flipping him over. In an instant, Dean was back beneath the snarling jaws of the creature. In a last ditch move, he thrust upward with both legs, his feet planting against the thing's bulk and lifting the demon off him. With a grunt, he pushed, launching the monster up and over his head.

For a split second, Dean thought he managed to free himself. But with a sudden jerk, he felt his body being pulled through the dirt. Scrabbling for purchase in the soft loom, Dean couldn't halt his backward momentum. Added to that, it felt as though his left arm was being ripped from its socket. The beast still had hold of him, its claws now burrowed beneath the flesh of his collar bone.

The pain was excruciating as the creature began to tumble over the edge ravine precipice, its talons still firmly imbedded in Dean's body. It fell into the space voided by the steep drop to the gulley below, dragging its prey along with it.

Dean was briefly aware of the open sky above him, rain clouds obscuring the sunlight and threatening another deluge of water. There was a quick sensation of falling, floating even, before his body slammed into something hard and unyielding. Instead of coming to a rest, Dean bounced and was rolling once more, his body tangled within the lethal grasp of the creature.

They slammed as a unit, a mockery of a lover's last embrace, into the base of the ravine. Man and beast both letting loose pain-filled grunts before everything became silent and still.

Dazed and in pain, Dean glanced skyward, his brain fighting for clarity amid the screaming of his body. _Get up!_ It ordered him. But pain and fatigue won over and his eyes slid shut even as the sky above opened up, rain like Heaven's own tears blanketing the broken and bloodied forms below.

dwWsw

Sam woke up just after sunrise, due only to his internal clock and not because of any errant beam of light piercing the thin curtains that hung lopsided from the rod above the window. His first glance, post eye rub, was over to the other bed. It was still empty and showed no sign of having been disturbed in any manner.

Swinging his legs over the side, Sam's feet hit the floor and he strode to the window, yanking aside the fabric and peering outside for the Impala. Like his brother, the Chevy remained absent.

Sam was fuming, furious even as he stormed back toward the nightstand and retrieved his cell phone. He checked for missed calls despite knowing he hadn't slept deep enough to have failed to hear the familiar ring tone associated with a call from Dean.

He didn't even have to scroll down to his list of loaded numbers, merely having to hit the send button since his brother's cell had been the last call – _last dozen calls actually_ – that he'd made. Waiting as muted rings tolled through the earpiece, Sam could feel his anger increasing. It was one thing for his brother to be irresponsible and shack up with some random chick while they were on a hunt, but it was totally another for Dean to be so callous not to even bother giving him a head's up.

…_.This is Dean… leave a message…_

The voicemail greeting was short and didn't divulge any additional information about his brother.

_Just like Dean!_ Sam thought irritably as he ended the call and flipped the cellular over his shoulder with a huff.

He headed toward the bathroom, his bladder finally screaming for attention. Stopping, Sam turned abruptly back to the bed. Snapping the discarded phone from atop the tousled linens, he angrily stabbed the send button once again.

_You're not getting off easy on this one, buster_ – he thought silently as he waited for the voicemail to pick up.

…_This is Dean… leave a message…._

"I guess you're taking a page from the old man's book? -Taking off without a word… not bothering to answer the phone or a return a message?" Sam snarled. "I hope wherever the hell you spent the night it was worth it. I know you don't give a damn about yourself lately, but I kinda thought you still gave a shit about me, to at least let me know you were alive. But hey… no worries Dean, I wouldn't want to interrupt your latest sexcapade with some boring hunt! If you can peel yourself off the waitress or the barmaid or whoever the hell you went home with, maybe you can find the decency to get your friggin' head back in the game and drag the rest of your ass back to the motel. I got no wheels and it's pretty damn hard to be working on this job – and at least one of us ought to be - if I have to walk everywhere."

Hearing the beep that signaled the end of the recording, Sam sucked a deep breath; finishing his tirade with a rushed "you're a jackass, Dean!" He knew it wouldn't likely be caught within the message but it felt good to verbalize none-the-less.

He launched the phone back to the bed with an irritated huff. With his heart pounding in his chest, he stalked off to the bathroom again. After taking care of the necessary business, the younger Winchester washed his hands and then splashed cool water on his face, hoping to calm the anger filling him. Lifting his head, he caught his reflection in the mirror.

The dark smudges under his eyes were a by-product of the lack of sleep he'd endured the past two nights - _thank-you very much, Dean!_ And despite going to bed at a reasonable time last evening, he'd tossed and turned, worried over his brother while simultaneously wanting to finish what the Kobine's had started.

"There just has to be a way to get through to him," he stated to his reflection. "Some way to get him to talk and tell me what the hell is bothering him so much. He just can't keep acting this way."

_Good luck with that…_ the face in the mirror silently replied. _When have you ever known Dean to really talk about what's on his mind? Remember that time outside Little Rock? _

"Yeah, Little Rock," Sam recalled. "That was a disaster. Dean barely said ten words in the two weeks after that hunt."

_And no matter how hard you and Dad tried to pry out of him what was wrong he wouldn't talk…_

"That was because he was too busy either drinking or sleeping off a hang-over," Sam refuted.

… _which was a cover… Dean's way of trying to erase the image of that woman from his head…_

"It was different then. I can't imagine how hard it was for him to find her dead. She looked so much like mom."

_How is it any different?_ Sam's conscience demanded. _He wouldn't talk about that woman and he's not gonna talk about whatever's bothering him now. Besides, you know it has to be Dad's death…_

"I just think it's something more. He wasn't nearly this self-destructive back then. It's been weeks now and he's not said a word. At least after Little Rock, he eventually came clean. I mean, it wasn't easy, but he finally told us what was bothering him."

_Yeah, because Dad threatened to beat it out of him…_

"Well, Dad's not here now…" Sam acknowledged. "And Dean's still being an ass."

_Calm down…_ his inner voice ordered. _You know why he's doing this. Sooner or later it will all work out, it always does. Just wait! Pretty soon he'll come sauntering through the door with coffee, donuts and a shit-eating grin from ear to ear. Take a shower and cool off till then. Yelling at him is only gonna push him deeper inside himself._

He glanced at the watch on his wrist, the timepiece marking seven-thirty. Sam slammed his open hand against the hard porcelain of the sink, his irritation unabated. He spotted the shower behind him, the ceramic tiles discolored with mildew. It wasn't really an appealing proposition, but he thought it couldn't hurt at this point. Besides, it would serve Dean right if he dragged back in from a night of catting-around to be relegated to a cold shower.

Stripping off his t-shirt and boxers, Sam twisted the taps on, relishing the instant heat from the shower as it drove off the chill from the cold linoleum. He stepped into the stall, the hot water sluicing down his back and over his shoulders to bathe his chest. He closed his eyes, willing away all the anger and tension from his head, relaxing slightly when it also eased the tautness in his muscles as well.

Twenty minutes found the hot water giving out and Sam's skin reddened and somewhat wrinkled from the lengthy shower. He turned the knobs and grabbed a surprisingly white towel from the nearby rack, ruffling it first through his hair to remove the excess water before wrapping it snuggly around his waist.

Deliberate steps took him back out to the main room where he pulled clean clothes from his duffle. Once dried and dressed, he dropped heavily into one of the side chairs. Staring across the room to the cellular still lying where he tossed it, Sam fought the urge to try another call. It was now nearly eight-fifteen and his earlier rage was beginning to wan. It was still too soon to be overly concerned, but getting late enough that Sam knew Dean wasn't hanging around for breakfast in bed; his brother never stayed for any guilt-ridden goodbyes.

Powering up the laptop, Sam surfed aimlessly for an additional thirty minutes before pushing aside the computer. The device disturbed the pile of paperwork he'd been going over last night revealing the edges of several glossy photos. Picking them out of the pile, he stared at the autopsy photos of the five victims.

Even muted by photography, the grisly images were powerful reminders of the brutal deaths each of the victims had suffered. Long lacerations rent clothing and flesh, while each man was cruelly eviscerated, intestines and other internal organs lay bare to the world. Even on an empty stomach, the pictures were enough to make the bile rise in Sam's throat.

He swallowed it down and thrust the papers to the side. It was well after nine now and his irritation at Dean was slowly morphing into concern. His brother never stayed this late into the morning, usually preferring to escape the bedroom of his overnight conquest long before the girl even realized he was gone. And lately, Dean hadn't even bothered to spend the night. He'd pick up some chick at a bar and was usually back to the motel before the late night infomercials started on the T.V.

"This just isn't like him," Sam murmured, rubbing the back of his neck and the sudden nagging ache that had taken up residence.

_Nothing's like him, lately…_ his inner voice reminded.

"I know… I know… and so help me, if he does stroll in here right now, I'm definitely cashing in the rain-check from Red Lodge."

Despite the tough talk, Sam was becoming more worried. Sure, his brother had been a jerk lately, but he knew... just_ knew_, that something was wrong now. Last night's "bad feeling" returned with a vengeance and the younger sibling found himself pacing nervously around the room once again.

He considered the cell, but knew that another call would only go to voicemail. Besides, he'd already left two messages, so short of his brother having lost his Motorola, the only other options were that Sam was being ignored, or…

"Dean's in trouble," Sam said knowingly.

_You left a pretty nasty message for him. Chances are he's pissed. After all, you accused him of being like your dad. Nothing like pouring salt into an open wound…_

Sam's head dropped, his internal chastisement more than sufficient to make him feel worthy of a "jackass of the month" award.

"I was angry," he justified. "I didn't mean to say that. Dean will understand."

_Sure he will! Dean always understands doesn't he? He understood when you blew him through a door with a load of rock-salt… he understood when you pointed an unloaded .45 in his face and pulled the trigger, he even understood when you left him outside Burkitsville…_

Sam dragged his fingers through his hair, tugging on the tousled locks and squeezing his eyes closed as his conscience rambled on.

_How many times has Dean basically confessed that family means everything to him? He told you in Chicago and he said it again in that rattrap cabin outside Jefferson City. Hell, you even heard old Yellow Eyes confirm as much while he was busy tearing your brother apart, taunting Dean with it. Maybe all that, the wreck, the hospital and then Dad… maybe it's all just been too much…_

"Dean's stronger than that…" Sam refuted.

_Everyone has their breaking point… even your brother! Maybe you've just been taking that all for granted?_

Sam shook his head to push away the condemnation and exhaled. "None of that matters right now… something's happened. I just know it."

Determined, the tall man crossed the room and began shoving items into his backpack. He had no idea where he was heading, but he knew that sitting on his ass waiting wasn't the answer. He had to find Dean. One way or another, whatever condition he was in, Sam just knew he needed to locate his sibling and silence the pestering voice in his head.

Tearing off a piece of paper, he jotted down a quick note to his brother – just in case. Placing it carefully in the middle of Dean's bed, Sam was just about to reach for the doorknob when his cellular began to ring. Startled, but excited, he let the backpack drop from his shoulder as he fumbled to get the phone out of his front jean pocket.

He didn't even look at the caller I.D., instead thumbing the green button as he anxiously waited for his brother's voice.

"Dean?" he called out impatiently.

There was a muffled breath and someone cleared their throat before speaking.

"No, Sam. It's Nara."

He tried to mask his disappointment, but was sure that his sigh didn't escape the woman's notice.

"Hi, Nara. I'm sorry," he apologized. "I was hoping…"

"It's okay," she said soothingly. "I… um… I'm really sorry to bother you… but…well… I… um … thought you needed to know…."

Sam felt his anxiety increase. Nara's voice sounded off and her reluctance to simply state the reason for her call was an ominous sign.

"Nara… what is it? What's happened?" he asked eagerly.

There was another long pause and Sam's heart began to pound within his chest. The nagging tautness at the back of his neck notched up another level and even the hair on his arms seemed to stand at attention.

"I was catching a ride into the store this morning," Nara continued. "A friend of mine, Hannah, drives past the reservation on her way into St. Cloud. We were on our way down County fifty-two and I saw it…"

She stopped again and Sam was ready to crawl through the phone to get the woman to continue. Whatever her news, he knew it couldn't be good and he found himself holding his breath as he anticipated the rest of Nara's story.

"What? What did you see?" Sam asked, his voice barely above a whisper. Fear filled him, and the sudden emptiness of his stomach had his insides feeling like the bottom had just dropped off a steep rollercoaster.

He heard her take a deep breath before she spoke, Nara's hesitation doing nothing for his current state of mind.

"It was just a black shape at the edge of an old snowmobile trail… if the trees had been any greener I wouldn't have noticed it at all… but that car… it kinda sticks out…" she spoke rapidly.

"Dean's car?" Sam interrupted.

"Yeah, Sam... it's his. I couldn't forget something like that car. I'm here now with Hannah. But Sam…"

"Nara, is Dean there? Is he alright? Where are you? How far from the motel? Is Dean okay?" The young hunter fired off.

"He's not here, Sam. But…"

"What? But what, Nara?"

He could hear her swallow hard, her voice quaking slightly as she spoke the next words.

"We found a dark blue jacket. It was lying on the front seat. And Sam, there's blood on it."

Sam couldn't speak; it felt as though the air had suddenly been sucked from the room. His hand fell to his side, the cell phone nearly dropping from it as he absorbed Nara's information. His inner voice screamed condemnation, responsibility laid at his feet due to his misguided certainty that his brother was merely screwing around. But his hunter's training immediately kicked in, determination to find Dean subduing panic and all the dark thoughts that were nibbling just at the edges of his mind.

He lifted the phone back to his ear, swallowed down the rock in his throat and forced the panic from his voice. "I'm on my way!"

_TBC… and yes- Sammy's in action now- so all my SamGirl readers – look out in the up-coming chapters. And of course- all my HurtDeanAddict readers… yep- plenty more of that to come as well… thanks again!_


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